Consulting? More Like INsulting Amirite? Up Top
by lindir's gaze
Summary: "Welcome to London. We have small strange gays, drama queens in the government, eyes the size of the moon, and two year periods where time inexplicably stops. Enjoy your stay!" "I've been here before, so you didn't need to say that." "Foiled again!" Mycroft threw a smoke bomb and ran away, panting loudly the entire time. [Crackfic, OOC, general insanity]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Two people were sitting in a therapist's office on a rainy day. One of them was a main character, and the other will probably never be seen again.

The latter, who was a therapist, wrote something down on her notepad. "Alright. On a scale of one to ten, how are you feeling right now? Answer with yes or no."

"...I have no idea how to answer that question."

"Yes or no."

"...Yes."

In a faraway land, Lorne Malvo shot up a bunch of people in an elevator.

"So how is your blog going?"

"Uh, yeah. It's good. Real good." John Watson, a small angry blond man, nodded unenthusiastically at the thought of his new blog.

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"I wrote a word!" John protested. "It was...my password...but hey, it's a start!"

"John, you're a soldier, and it's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Outside the office, a flaming police box crashed into the ground, exploding upon impact. John shrugged. "Nothing ever happens to me."

-Elsewhere-

Lestrade, Donovan, and some other guy who looked vaguely like a dinosaur were stuck in a press conference about serial suicides.

"Detective Inspector, how can the suicides be linked?" asked one of the reporters.

Lestrade took a sip from his coffee. "Hell if I know."

"Sir, please, I am just trying to write an article."

"They all took the same poison," Donovan piped up. "And they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication of—"

"But you can't have serial suicides," another reporter interrupted.

Lestrade took another sip of his coffee, which everyone suspected was actually brandy. "Haha idk."

Just then, everyone's phone rang with a text notification that just said: _Wrong!_

"It says wrong," one of the reporters observed.

"No fucking shit it does, Susan!" another reporter screamed. "Always tryna point out the obvious!"

Another text: _Wrong!_

At this, the room broke out in a full out brawl. One of the reporters threw a chair, then a table, then an entire person.

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay."

-ElseElsewhere-

After being called to an intervention meeting about his blog, John went to get some coffee. He was planning to spend the rest of the day in his apartment doing literally nothing, but a loud cry off to the side sent those plans down the drain.

"EYYYYYY Johnny boy! Wassup?"

"Hello...Mike…"

Mike Stamford was sitting on one of the benches in the park, several thousand coffee cups scattered around him. The resulting caffeine rush had enlarged his eyes to the size of the moon, even though it was not quite nine PM. "What's been up with you, bro?"

"We haven't spoken since college," John said since he was an actual trash can.

"I've been great!" Mike continued as though he hadn't heard him. Maybe he hadn't, since his eyes took up most of his face. "Where have you been living these days?"

"In a shoebox in the middle of the road," John answered with shifty eyes. "I'm too broke to afford a flat by myself, and I doubt anyone would want to share a flat with me."

Mike chuckled. "You're the fifth person to say that to me today!"

"...Who was the first?"

"A small old lady living in a dumpster. The second was a cat that used sign language to communicate with me. The third was an ancient being older than time itself…"

"I've decided I don't care anymore. Bye." John left.

"The fourth was the strangest and smallest gay I've ever met…"

-In Some Other Part of London-

A strange small gay was working in a morgue in some other part of London. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and his cheekbones were large enough to shelter several small children in the face of a medium-sized storm, or protect the sick and wounded from the cruelty of the world.

There was a strange rubbery noise as Mike's enormous eyes squeezed through the door, followed by the rest of his body and John. "Eyo Sherlock! What's up?"

"I'm sciencing." Sherlock was pouring a chemical back and forth between two beakers. Suddenly it bubbled over and spilled onto his hand, giving him third degree acid burns. "Ok."

"Those are third degree burns," John pointed out unnecessarily. "Shouldn't you get that, like, fixed?"

"I'm afraid not. Death is inevitable, Sexy Army Man Whose Name I Don't Know," Sherlock said.

"I'm John Watson."

"John…" A solid five minutes of homoerotic staring occurred. Mike stared at everything since his large eyeball capacity allowed for that.

Just then, Molly walked in with coffee.

"Wow, that was fast," Sherlock commented. "Usually there's a long line."

"There was. And there still is a long line, but none of them are moving anymore." Molly left the room, leaving an ominous chill behind.

Sherlock turned back to John. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Well, I guess it's a nice instrument, though I'm really more a saxophone guy—"

"I don't care anymore. Wanna move in together?"

"Well, I don't see why not…"

"Sometimes I play the violin and at other times I don't talk for days. I have a tendency to lie flat on various objects and sometimes I pretend to die, then come back to life."

"You sound an awful lot like a vampire."

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. "Well...you sound a lot like an Army doctor who's been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

There was another solid five minutes of staring. John's eye twitched. "What the fuck?"

"I think that's enough to be going on with." Sherlock walked backwards around the desk and towards the door. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon!" He backwards-walked into the door.

John looked into the camera with a worried expression. "Alright then."

**Welcome to my new BBC Sherlock parody! Basically the premise of my parodies is that every character is insane and there are one or two concerned bystanders (one of them will always be Martin Freeman). I've written a Hobbit one if you want to check that out.**

**Leave a comment letting me know what you thought, and which character you are excited to meet next!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The next morning, John went to go look at the flat with the gay vampire man. He knocked the black door that said 221b and waited.

"Hello."

John screamed and turned around, whipping out his gun. Sherlock's combative instincts kicked in as well and soon the both of them were on the ground, wrestling for control.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "You two need anything? Condoms? Snacks?"

After certain items of clothing had been moved to their proper body parts, Mrs. Hudson, John, and Sherlock walked upstairs to the flat.

John surveyed the room. "Me," he said after a while.

"What?"

John pointed to himself. "Me." He pointed to the room. "Trash." He pointed back at himself. "Me."

"...Alrighty then."

John pointed at the fireplace. "That's a skull."

"Yeah. All the other bones ended up in...other places...so…"

"Uh…" John frantically tried to think of something to change the subject. "I googled you last night."

"Find anything interesting?"

"A lot of porn and slash fanfiction. Are you seriously obsessed with bees?"

Suddenly, a cacophony of police sirens sounded outside the flat, followed by heavy, rushed footsteps and...an apathetic knock at the door.

Lestrade walked in. "There's been another suicide, I guess."

"Where?"

Lestrade said a bunch of British-sounding gibberish.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock made an "UUUUUGGGGHHHHHH" sound for approximately two hours.

Lestrade shrugged. "Well come over to the crime scene, I guess." He walked out.

Once the apathetic detective inspector had gone, Sherlock jumped into the air and fist-pumped. "FUCK YES! Four serial suicides!" He high-fived John in the face. "Oh, it's Christmas!"

"It's not actually Christmas—"

"Shut up, Bilbo." Sherlock launched a firework out the window, shattering the glass, then backflipped out of the hole he'd created.

John covered his face with both hands. "I need a drink."

Suddenly Sherlock...un-backflipped...back into the flat. "You're a doctor. An Army doctor, in fact."

"Didn't we establish that in the last chapter?"

Sherlock ignored that. "You've seen a lot of injuries, then—violent deaths, too."

"Yep. It was pretty horrible and traumatizing—"

"Wanna see some more?"

"Not really. I was just kinda gonna sit here and watch some Gossip Girl…"

"What I'm hearing you say is 'no', but I'm getting the feeling that you actually want to say 'yes'."

"No, I literally don't—"

"The game is on!" Sherlock grabbed John by his...hair...and they were off.

-Later, In A Cab-

"Okay, you've got questions."

John nodded. "Yeah, a few. First of all: what the hell is going on?"

"Well, we're in a cab going to investigate some serial suicides."

"Second of all: what the hell is going on?"

"Wh—"

"Thirty-second of all: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" John punched the window of the cab, shattering it.

"Hey, you're not allowed to do that!" said the driver, but he fell silent after seeing the small angry man's death glare.

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock announced randomly. "The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"That's bullshit."

"I know."

"Hey, how did you know all that stuff about me back at the hospital?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor—obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq."

John looked up from where he'd been nodding off. "Wait what? Can you repeat the last...nine sentences?"

Sherlock frowned. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Well, once I deduced this guy who vaguely looked like Robert Downey Jr., and his response was along the lines of, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am just going to state the obvious—we have a doppelganger in our midst. I, as an artist who respects creative integrity and intellectual property, I am disgusted at how much you have copied…'"

John started nodding off again.  
-At the Crime Scene-

Sally Donovan was waiting for them. The Sergeant crossed her arms. "Hello, freak."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mind working frantically. "Sally Donovan...more like...more like...Sally DONEovan. Because I'm so _done_ with you."

A long silence echoed. Sally rolled her eyes.

John patted the detective on the back. "Good one, mate. Let's get on with it, then."

Another glaring government employee was waiting for them by the door. His name was Anderson and he looked vaguely like a dinosaur.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" the dinosaur man snapped.

"It's already been contaminated, since you're here," Sherlock sassed.

"GET REKT!" John high-fived Sherlock.

Lestrade was inside in what looked like a pale blue onesie. It looked like a pale blue onesie because it was a pale blue onesie.

"I didn't feel like changing," the detective inspector explained.

-Upstairs-

Sherlock studied the dead body lying on the floor. It was a woman dressed entirely in pink. As he knelt down, words in a neat font began hovering over the body, saying stuff like _left handed_ and _RACHE German (n.) revenge._

John stumbled back, eyes widening. "How the fuck are you doing that? Where are those words coming from?"

Anderson appeared in the doorway. "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something…"

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock pushed the door closed but the dinosaur man simply stepped back, causing the door to swing through the doorway. Anderson kept talking.

"If you spell 'Rache' backwards you get 'echar', which—"

"Makes about as much sense as what you're saying. Which is none." Sherlock gripped both sides of the doorframe and, with a great amount of effort, managed to pull them together. This had the effect of leaving two holes on either side, though. "God fucking dammit."

"So, is she like German, or…" Lestrade trailed off, looking at the ground. It was unclear whether he was thinking or had just fallen asleep.

"Seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock said.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"But this is more fun, isn't it?"

"Fun? This random person is dead." John gestured to the pink lady.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

"Deeper…" They stared into each other's eyes for a long time.

"Um….okay." Lestrade left.

**Sorry this took so long. School and stuff. Eh. I'm in a Lestrade mood right now.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

After establishing that the pink lady was dead and that the cause of death was...yeah, no, that's all they got, Sherlock shouted something about pink and made a dramatic exit. Surprisingly, not many people reacted to the detective shooting the third-floor window with a grenade launcher and backflipping out the hole.

John exited in the normal way: the stairs, while tripping any and everyone with his cane as he passed. Outside, Sherlock was no where to be found but Sally was still there.

"Stay away from that guy," she said.

John cast a wary glance at a random guy in the adjacent alley. The guy somehow rotated his head 360 degrees without breaking eye contact. "...Okay, I'll be sure to do that."

"Also, stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?"

Sally stared at him. "He just blew up a window and backflipped out of it. And survived!"

John laughed. "Haha yeah. Next he'll be crashing a starship into San Francisco or something! Well, it was nice chatting." He walked away.

Once on the main road, John heard the phone in the telephone box ring, though no one was in the box at the time.

"Fuckin Doctor Who shit…" he grumbled and moved along.

By the tenth ringing box he passed, the army doctor was starting to get really pissed. He punched through the glass and ripped the phone cord, silencing the ringing.

In some faraway secret room, a mysterious man sighed. "Oh, for God's sake. Time for Plan B."

Back with John: He threw the broken phone in a dumpster and kept walking. He was just wondering where exactly he was going when a giant head appeared in the sky. "Wha—Dad?"

"Yes, it is me, son," said Morgan Freeman.

"What the hell is going on?" Several other people had noticed the sky-head, but they all shrugged and moved on, muttering about 'Doctor Who shit' under their breath.

"Get into the van, son," said Sky Morgan Freeman. A white van had pulled up next to John. "Wait, shit, the car, the car! Not the white van!"

John shrugged and got into the black car. A brunette woman was also sitting in the car, texting on her Blackberry.

"Uh, hi."

"Hi."

"What the hell is going on?"

The woman (not to be confused with The Woman) handed him a piece of paper.

"This just says 'the giant ass shattered upon impact'."

"Yes."

-Later-

The car pulled into an empty warehouse. John got out and looked around. Standing in the middle of the warehouse was...a man. He walked up to the guy. "Uh...hello?"

The man exploded violently and rather suddenly. John let out a scream that was at least two octaves higher than normal and jumped back.

Maniacal laughter sounded from above. The laughter moved slightly to the left, then went down a staircase. It stumbled and cursed, then the laughter started up again and opened a door.

A strange man that looked like a potato walked out. "Well, well, well…" He took a stuffed pig out of his pocket, shook it once, then put it back. "Anyway. Have a seat, John."

John looked around. The only thing in his immediate vicinity was the remains of the exploding man from a hundred words ago. "Where? There aren't any chairs."

"Why, the floor, of course! The floor is one big infinite chair if you think about it. Also, I want to be able to look down at you and feel superior. Oh wait, you don't need to sit down for me to do that! Because of your height!" The man high-fived himself, a slightly maniacal smile on his face.

"Dude, what do you want?" John asked. "The mysterious phones, the head in the sky, the exploding man...you could have just called me."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." The potato man narrowed his eyes. "You don't seem very afraid."

"Eh."

"How about...now!" Potato threw a smoke bomb.

"How in the hell was that supposed to be scary?"

Potato coughed for several minutes due to the smoke before asking, "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well—I—" John sputtered defensively. "Well—what's _you're_ connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"You spelled 'your' wrong."

"Touche." John crossed his arms.

"You spelled dou—oh, wait, never mind."

"Who the hell even are you?"

"An interested party. _And_ an interesting party." Strobe lights came out of nowhere.

"Are you, like, his stalker?"

Potato became all puffy. "I am his enemy. Probably his arch enemy. No, scratch that, _arch nemesis_. Arch nesnemeny!" He snapped his fingers at someone John couldn't see. "Gerald, write that one down!"

John's phone buzzed. It was Sherlock. _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH _The text appeared next to John's head. He jumped away. "How does he _do_ that?"

Potato cleared his throat, not liking being ignored. "Anyways, if you do decide to move into…" He looked at the smudged writing on his hand. "Twenty two pounds Breaking Bad...I'll pay you a large sum of money to spy on Sherlock. Look at how much money I have!" He made it rain. The money exploded.

John recovered from like his fifth heart attack that day. "You have a thing for explosions, don't you?"

Another text appeared next to his head. _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_ John tried to hit the letters. They punched him back.

John looked straight into the camera. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Potato cackled. "Welcome to London. We have small strange gays, drama queens in the government, eyes the size of the moon, and two year periods where time inexplicably stops. Enjoy your stay!"

"I've been here before, so you didn't need to say that."

"Foiled again!" Potato threw a smoke bomb and ran away, panting loudly the entire time.

John went back to the car that had taken him to the warehouse. The words _Could be dangerous. SH_ did a sassy spin around his head before disappearing.

-A Certain Number of Minutes Later-

The car dropped him off at 221b Breaking Bad whatever. John hopped out, checked the gun in his pants, and knocked on the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John bust into the flat, gun blazing. "My gun is on fire!"

"Throw it out the window," Sherlock said very, very calmly.

He did. Then John looked over at the detective, where he was lying on the sofa. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patches. They help me think."

John leaned over. "That's just crack cocaine taped to your arm."

"Whatever. Anyway, I need to borrow your phone."

"My phone?"

"Your phone."

"_My phone_?"

"_** E,**_" Sherlock roared, causing an 8.7 earthquake on the metric table, or whatever them Brits use.

"Fine, fine!" John threw the phone at him.

Sherlock stroked the phone, then handed it back. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text to it."

"A text?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Don't do this."

"Fine." John took the phone. "By the way, did you know a man resembling a potato is stalking you?"

"Yea. Alright, here's the text you're gonna send. These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

John had only typed 'What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have b' before he accidentally sent it. "...Oops."

Sherlock parkoured over his coffee table, did a triple flip, walked on the ceiling, then landed in the kitchen. "Did you send it?"

"Uh...yeah." John inconspicuously threw the phone out the window. A roar of pain was heard down below.

Sherlock walked over to a bright pink suitcase sitting on one of the chairs and unzipped it. There were a few books, clothes, and some women's underwear in it. Sherlock flinched visibly upon seeing the latter and carefully removed it to another part of the flat, setting the whole contaminated area on fire.

"Wait a second…" John looked at the case, then at Sherlock, then at the case.

"Oh yeah, I should probably mention that I didn't kill her," the detective said.

"Whatever." John shrugged and sat down. "How did you find this?"

"I went looking in the trash," Sherlock said, and gaze pensively out the window. "My second home."

"Same!" They high-fived.

Unfortunately this very bro-ly scene of very friendly platonic bromanship was broken by the phone ringing. Neither of them questioned how it had ended up back in the flat.

John answered it. "Hello?"

Sherlock shot the phone out of his hand, consequently deafening him in one ear. "Idiot! You're not supposed to answer it!"

John punched him in the face. They became locked in another VERY PLATONIC wrestling match. Then they went out to dinner.

A waiter greeted them when they walked into the restaurant. "Everything's on the house, for you and your date!"

"Thanks, Billy!" said Sherlock.

"My name isn't Billy," said the waiter. He was ignored.

"And I'm not his date," John told Not-Billy.

"Yeah, and I'm not an emotionally stunted sociopath with a high intelligence," Sherlock scoffed. Then he looked out the window and said in a smoll voice, "Soon They Will Learn The Truth."

They sat down and some guy named Angelo brought them a menu.

"The only item on this menu is 'Sherlock's Ass'," John said.

Angelo winked.

Sherlock changed the subject. "By the way, the potato man is my brother who is in charge of the government."

"Yeah, whatever, so, are you single?" John asked.

Sherlock jumped up. "A taxi! Time to go!" He karate kicked through the glass window...or tried to, since it was made of bullet proof glass. "Plan B!" He ran out the door. John followed him and they started chasing the taxi. Sherlock's spaghetti noodle legs allowed him to run at like 20 mph while John struggled to keep up.

"Sherlock, wait u—" The words ALTERNATIVE ROUTE popped up in a big font and clotheslined him.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock was on a roof. He reached into his fanny pack and pulled out the Power of Rainbow Magic to help him onto the next roof. "Weeeeeeee!"

John stared at the sparkling rainbow. He took a running leap. Surprisingly, nothing horrifying happened. Soon both gays were back on the sidewalk chasing the cab. They had almost intercepted it but it passed them.

"Son of a bitch!" Sherlock threw his hat on the ground.

"When did you get a hat?" John asked.

"Screw this!" Sherlock took a grenade launcher and blew up the cab.

John, panting, finally caught up and full body tackled another cab. "I've got you now!" The cab driver screamed and gunned the engine, John hanging onto the roof the whole time.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Sherlock took a picture. "This is going on Instagram."

-Back at the Flat-

Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the landing of 22 lbs whatever. "Well, that was fun."

Mrs Hudson ran downstairs. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

The cab with John crashed into the front of the building.

"You mean that?"

"No, the goddamn cops upstairs!"

John slowly slid down the front of the cab. "My head is killing me…"

Upstairs, the cops were doing a drugs bust on his flat.

John scoffed at this. "Sherlock's not a junkie!"

Lestrade deadpanned. "Literally everyone in this fic is a junkie. I ate a whole marijuana today."

"We're in a fic?"

Sherlock broke a window. "Stop breaking the fourth wall!"

"No, that's a window."

"Hello everyone!" Anderson the dinosaur man appeared. No one cared.

Sally appeared as well. She held up a bag of eyeballs. "Are these human eyes?"

"Yes." Sherlock did not elaborate further.

"Well, we found out who Rachel was," Greg said.

"Who is Greg?" Sherlock asked, breaking the fourth wall again.

"Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, who died fourteen years ago," Lestrade continued.

John patted the DI on the shoulder. "That must've been rough, mate."

"Wha—no! Rachel, not me!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "That's what they all say...Groot. If that is even your real name..." he said in a detective-y voice.

Lestrade went back to not caring. "...k."

"But why would she scratch it into the floor?" Sherlock wondered. He turned to John. "If you were dying, what would you say?"

Anderson adjusted his dinosaur nose. "Well, I would say—"

"SHUT UP, ANDERSON!" You can guess who said that. "Your face is putting me off!"

Sadly, Anderson took off his dinosaur nose.

Suddenly, Sherlock had a eureka moment! "Of course! Why didn't I think of this before?" He ran over to Anderson, threw him out the (not broken) window, then returned to the problem at hand. "Now, why would she write Rachel on the floor…"

"Maybe it's her password?" John suggested. "For her e-mail?"

And finally, the plot began to move once more.

They logged into Jenye West's email account. Anderson poked his head through the now-broken window.

"We can read her e-mails now. So what?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop. "Anderson, stfu. You lower the IQ of the whole street."

"But wouldn't that mean—" The dinosaur man ducked as a heavy-duty printer was launched at his head.

"Anyway, the GPS will show us where the phone is." The location showed up on the screen. It was 221b.

"Maybe the phone is still in the case, or something," Lestrade said.

"Or maybe…" Sherlock dramatically pointed at a random cop. "It was YOU, ROGER! I should have know it all along!" The cop screamed, his guilty conscience finally overwhelming him Edgar Allan Poe style. Sherlock laughed. "I'm just fucking with you, man." 'Roger' was on the ground foaming at the mouth.

The remaining cops started looking for the phone.

Sherlock shrugged. "I should probably help them, but…" He jumped out one of the windows, landing on the old cabbie outside.

"FUCKING OW."

**Hello friends! It's been a while! I'm finally on break now and I finished my other parody on ao3 (The Hobbit: An Unexpected Parody; go check it out) so I should be updating more frequently. Feel free to leave a comment telling me what you think or what you would throw at Anderson's head!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock had landed on some guy named Jeff Hope.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes…" the old guy groaned.

The detective stood up, dusting off his cheekbones. "I didn't order a taxi."

Several snapping noises were heard as the cabbie got to his feet. "Doesn't mean you don't need one. Perhaps We Are All Cabs In the Cab Of Life."

"Wait a second…" Sherlock had another eureka moment! "_You're_ the serial killer!"

"I didn't kill those people, Mr. Holmes. I talked to them, and then they killed themselves."

"Are you sure it's not just your ugly ass face?"

After that sick burn, Sherlock got into Jeff's cab and they were off to advance the plot.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked.

"I recognized ya from when ya blew up the cab next to mine with a grenade launcher," Jeffy answered. "Sherlock Holmes the detective! I was warned about you."

"By who?"

"Just someone who noticed ya."

"Who would notice me?" Sherlock asked.

"You're fucking Benedict Cumberbatch. You're everyone's Senpai."

"Fair enough."

They drove up to some college and got out of the cab.

-A Few Minutes Later-

They were in some random classroom. Jeff took a bottle with a pill inside and put it on the table. Then he took an identical bottle and put it beside the first.

"How many of those do you have in there?" Sherlock asked.

"Well...let's just say these aren't real legs. Anyway, here's how this works: one of the pills is poison and one is not. We both take one and then one of us will die!"

"Hmmm…" Sherlock stroked his nonexistent beard. "This is a very problematic problem, I see…"

"Make your move, Mr. Holmes," said Jefye West.

"Wait a minute, this isn't a puzzle! This is just fucking luck!" Sherlock flipped over the table. The table spun a perfect 360 degrees and landed right side up, somehow.

"It's not luck. I survived four times in a row."

"You should try the lottery."

"Maybe I will, after I win this game." Jeff somehow made a B) face. "Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff? Or a quadruple-bluff…" This went on for quite a while.

-Meanwhile-

John was stuck in traffic. "Come on come on come on!" He hit the laptop showing Sherlock's location repeatedly. "Even the Internet speed out here is faster than the fuCKING TRAFFIC."

-Back at the College-

"It doesn't matter if it's a undecuple hendecuple bluff, it's still just luck!"

"Or maybe God just loves me."

"He certainly doesn't love your face," Sherlock muttered. "Now why would you risk your life four times just for the heck of it?"

"Heck is a fucking bad word," said Jeff.

The detective did some deducey things which ended up with the word _dying _appearing next to Jeff's head.

The cabbie yelped and tried to swat it away. "How did you do that?"

"So you're like literally dying?"

"Literally. I get money every time I kill someone."

Sherlock made a face. "Who the hell would sponsor a serial killer?"

"idk just take a look at any US police department."

They both paused at the sound of a distant banging noise. "Do you hear that?"

John was busting open doors somewhere else in the building, guns blazing. "SHERLOCK!"

The janitor walked up to him. "Hey, are you looking for—"

John pulled a gun on him. "Make one move and you're dead!"

"Uh, sir, I don't exactly—"

"YOU MOVED!" John put a cap in the guy's ass while _mmm whatcha say_ played in the background.

-Back with J-Spice and Sherls-

"I could just walk out of here and not take either pill," Sherlock said, still stalling for the plot's sake.

"But then...I'd put a cap in your ass!" Jeff pulled a gun on the gay detective.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft. That's not even a real gun."

"Dammit!" Jeffy threw the gun to the floor, angered.

"Well, this has been fun," Sherlock said, unangered. "But I think our little game has come to an end." He took out a grenade launcher.

"Waitwaitwait! Before you blow shit up, did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?" Jeff asked (dat save tho).

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Pfffffffffffffffffff—"

"Please just answer the question," said Geoff.

"The good bottle is…" Sherlock took out a third identical pill bottle from his pocket. "This one!"

"Where the fuck did you—"

"See!" Sherlock slammed the bottle on the table. The three bottles formed...a triangle! Illuminati confirmed!

A great pyramidal eye blasted a hole through the ceiling and incinerated Jeff, obliterating him from time and space.

**NO ONE EXPECTS THE ILLUMINATI.**

Sherlock woke up outside the college with an orange blanket on him. John and Lestrade quickly put their phones away.

"How ya doin, big guy?"

The detective crossed his arms. "I'm not big. I'm very smoll."

"We still don't know who shot the cabbie," Lestrizzle said. "Do you have any theories, Sherlock?"

"Shot?" Sherlock asked, confused. "It was the Illuminati!"

"Illuminati?" Greg asked, confused. "He was shot!"

"Shot?" Sherlock asked, confused. "It was the Illuminati!"

"Illuminati?" Greg asked, confused. "He was—"

"It doesn't matter what happened!" John said, and was ignored.

"Even if he was shot, it would have to be some sort of super hot army guy," Sherlock said.

"And do you know anyone like that?" asked Lestroodle.

Sherlock thought for a long time. "...Nope."

John glared and the detective inspector lestroodled away.

"So, you wanna go get dinner?"

The car next to them exploded, and from the smoke emerged...Potato Man! He started laughing maniacally which quickly turned into another coughing fit due to the smoke.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock scowled.

"Mycroft?" John scoffed. "What kind of name is Mycroft? I'd name my dog Mycroft."

Potato I mean Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I'll see you around, punk. Sleep with one eye open." With that, he threw another smoke bomb and ran away.

John and Sherlock stared after him.

"Who the hell _is_ he?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Nah."

**So at this rate I should have 5 chapters per episode. Now that it's summer I should have more time to work on it, so expect more soon B)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Sir—sir! You're gonna break the machine!"

John stopped punching the self-checkout machine and glared at it. "Now you listen here you iMac-fucking two-wire piece of shit. There is no unauthorized item in the bagging area, I'm fucking telling you!"

The machine made a couple of beeps.

The army doctor stroked his chin, even though he had no beard (Sarah comes along later in the story lol). "I see."

It made a whirring noise and more beeps.

"Well if you put it that way…"

The store manager that had yelled at him in the first place slowly retreated, never taking his eyes off John.

-Back at 221b-

Sherlock was chillin and having a smoke after beating up some guy cosplaying as a rug. Or maybe it was a rug cosplaying as some guy.

Anyway, John walked back into the flat, dragging the chip-and-PIN machine with him.

Sherlock looked up. "Dude what the hell is that?"

"That's my girlfriend. I named her Sarah."

"That's a machine."

"Yeah. So?"

"Fair enough." Sherlock stood up.

"You know, you could always get the groceries yourself. You've been sitting there all morning and I—"

"Sorry I can't I have to go byeeeeeee~" Sherlock backflipped out the window and into SPACE.

Sarah the chip-and-PIN machine beeped.

-Later-

John came back with groceries. Sarah the chip-and-PIN machine (STCAPM) had been moved to the corner.

J-Spice picked up a pile of bills. "Damn. I need to get a job."

Sherlock 'pffft'ed. "Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff—"

"Will you stop that?"

"We need to go to the bank." Sherlock headed for the window, but John grabbed him by the hair and pulled him out the door.

-At the Bank-

They met a man called Sebastian who worked in the bank. He shook Sherlock's hand. "Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

John snorted. "Clapped eyes? Who even uses that phrase?"

Sebastian's eyes came out of his skull and started clapping.

After that terrifying and scarring demonstration, they sat down to talk.

"Looks like you've been abroad a lot," Sherlock said.

"Haha yeah. Twice in the world around the month. I mean world a month twice around. World a month twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice twice—" Sebastian started twitching rapidly.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's probably just the stress. Let's go see what he called us in for."

They walked into an office. On one wall there was a portrait of some flat white bread with some yellow spray paint on it.

"Hmmm…" Sherlock stroked his beardless chin.

Then the looked at the security footage. One minute there was no graffiti, the next there was a splash of yellow paint.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian said, having regained his sanity.

"Hmmm…" Sherlock was still stroking his chin. The graffiti symbols from before were floating around his head.

John tried to swat them away with a broom. "I told you to stop doing that!"

-Later-

"Hmmm…" Sherlock was scoping out the graffiiti'd office with a pair of binoculars.

"Um, could you get off my desk?" said a random worker whose desk had a certain smoll gay perched on top of it.

"Silence, prole."

After a couple of hours Sherlock got off the desk. "Aha!"

The worker sighed in relief. "Can I work now?"

"Not yet." Sherlock broke the desk over his knee and created a bonfire with the pieces. "Okay, I think I have my answer. Return to your work."

The worker thrust his head into the flames. "WHY ME?"

-Later-

"We have to go talk to some guy named Edward Van Coon," Sherlock said.

"And how do you know that?" John asked.

Sherlock laughed, longly and loudly. "You're a funny, silly man." He patted John on the head. John tried to punch him in the face, but he was too short.

They stopped by Van Coon's apartment building. Sherlock rang the buzzer a couple of times, but there was no answer.

"Well, what do we do now? Wait for him to come back?" John asked. He looked up to see Sherlock zooming in through the window fifteen stories above. "Or...that…"

Sherlock scoped out the apartment, which had a bunch of rich stuff in it, such as leather furniture, nice tiled floors, a dead man lying on a bed, a fancy shower, and every single Macklemore album ever released. Wait a minute…

"Macklemore!" Sherlock ran over and looted all of the dead man's CDs. Wait a minute…

John banged on the door. "Sherlock, you wanna let me in?"

"There's a dead guy in here!"

-Later-

A bunch of police were checking out the house. John looked at the dead guy's body. "I guess he must have lost a bunch of money. Suicide is pretty common in the city, or so I've heard." He stroked his beardless chin and spoke in a low voice, "That is, without taking the lizard people into account…"

Sherlock had only heard the first part. "Pfffffffffffffffffffffft we don't know that for sure."

Just then, some random police guy swaggered in. "Whatcha doing in my crime scene? Tampering with evidence? Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Ho—"

"I know who you are. What are you doing here?"

"Investigating," Sherlock said. "Where's Lestroodle?"

"Busy. _I'm_ in charge here. Detective Inspector Dimmock." The new DI puffed out his chest, which was comparable to a slice of bread being toasted. Meaning his chest didn't get any bigger.

"Sure, Jan. Anyway, it wasn't a suicide. The wound was on the right side of his head and Van Coon was left handed," Sherlock said. "Get rekt, bitch."

-Later-

Sebastian was having dinner with some of his bank homies and telling dumb stories about...money, or whatever bank people talk about.

Sherlock crawled out from underneath the table. "The graffiti was a threat," he said, ignoring the surprised screams of several of the bank workers.

Sebye West scowled. "Ummmm do you mind?"

"Sorry Sebye. No time for that. One of your co-workers has been…." Sherlock put on some shades. "...Murdered."

**Here's the new chapter! Sorry I took so long; I'm beginning to remember why TBB is my least favorite episode lol**

**For this chapter's question...would you rather have Sherlock's power of jumping out windows or John's power of dating chip-and-PIN machines?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Sherlock, John, and Sebastian were all talking in the bathroom...for some reason.

"The cops are saying it was a suicide," Sebastian said.

"Well, it wasn't. I already proved that he was….." Sherlock put on some shades. "...Murdered."

John took the shades off his face. "You can't do that twice within sixty words."

"I hired you to look into the strange happenings at the bank," Seb said. "Don't do anything off-topic, like looking into the strange happenings at the bank."

"...Ok."

-The Doctor's Office, or something-

John was going in for a job interview. He walked into the room and stared at who was sitting at the desk. "Sarah the chip-and-PIN machine?!"

"звуковой сигнал боп," said STCAPM.

"I see! Well I had no idea you had any qualifications in the medical field."

"я получил сына работу."

"Great!"

STCAPM buffered for a minute. "любые другие навыки в области тха?"

"I can play the clarinet," John said. "Which means I'm really good at giving blowjobs. Wait…"

-Later-

Sherlock and John went to another flat to check out this other guy who had been murdered.

"Doors locked, four floors up," Sherlock told Dimmock. "Very similar to how Van Coon died, meaning he didn't commit suicide. Get rekt, bitch."

Sherlock inspected the flat, which had books everywhere. "The door was locked, so the criminal must have found another way in. Aha!" He pointed to the skylight. "He must have scaled the walls and dropped in through here."

"Wtf?" said Dimmock. "Like Spiderman or something?"

"SPIDERMAN!" J Jonah Jameson punched through a wall, eviscerating a random cop.

"Pfffft yeah. He scaled six floors to kill Van Coon," Sherlock said. He started looking through the books. "He must have been in the library. To West Kensington!"

After traversing the English wilderness of Crumpetshire and South-East Yorkwallisburgh, they finally reached the library.

Sherlock studied the book he had picked up from the guy's flat. "The date stamped on the book was the same date he died. That must mean…"

"He went to the library before he died?"

"Or the book killed him…" Sherlock quickly pulled the book into a chokehold (somehow?). "Try anything…and you're dead!"

John pushed over a shelf, scattering books everywhere. "Hey, look, more graffiti!"

-Back at Baker Street-

"So...Van Coon sees the graffiti on that painting, flees to his home, and dies soon after. Book Guy sees graffiti at the library, flees to his home, and dies as well." Sherlock stroked his chin. "Interesting."

"Why did they die?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Aha! I've got it! They must have been…..killed. To death! And then they died!"

"Brilliant!" The boys ran out of Baker Street in search of new clues.

-Some Other Part of London-

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"I need to ask for some advice."

"Holy shit are you joking? Sherlock Holmes needs advice? WOO0oo000oooo0o0OO0Oot?"

Sherlock's glare was fierce enough to break seventeen windows. "It's about painting, okay? I'm not Leonardo Michelangelo or some shit!"

At the back of the building, they met a guy who was spraying Johnlock fanart on the wall.

"Eh? What do you think? I call it, 'You Were Told But You Didn't Listen.'"

"Whatever." Sherlock showed him the picture of the graffiti. "Do you know anything about this? Maybe the symbols?"

"I'm not sure that's even a proper language."

"Two men have been murdered! This is important!"

"Uh, guys…" John pointed at two cops coming down the street, but was ignored.

"What, the paint killed them?" Graffiti Guy asked.

"No, they were shot! Although…" Sherlock stroked his chin, giving the paint can a suspicious glare. "Never mind."

"Hey!" The cops started sprinting toward them. Graffiti Guy hauled ass, and Sherlock disappeared through the nearest window. John was left with the pile of spray cans.

"Hey man wtf? You can't spray paint here!" said one of the cops.

"I-It wasn't me!" John said. "It was…" He shoved the cans into the other cop's hand. "...him! See, the evidence is all over him!"

The cop rubbed his chin. "Hmm...you're good." He turned to the other cop. "You're under arrest."

"Hey what the hell man?"

-Back at Baker Street-

Sherlock had a bunch of papers and clues taped to the wall. He was staring at them intently, drawing lines and writing notes every once in a while.

John walked in. "Figure anything out yet?"

Sherlock crossed something out. "I think I've finally figured out how Moriarty survived at the end of Season 2!"

"Does that even count as breaking the fourth wall?"

"Oh, we should probably get back to the graffiti case. Go to the police station and see if you can find anything about Dead Guy #2."

"Nooooo but Elementary is on in like five minutes!" John said.

"No one gives a shit about Elementary. Anyway, we should find where the two men were and if they ever crossed paths. Good luck bye!" And out the window he went.

-The West Farthing Bank or whatever that place was called-

Sherlock was going through Van Coon's receipts with his PA. "So, what kind of boss was he? Appreciative?"

"No, not really. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

The detective gestured to a bottle of expensive lotion on the desk. "He got that for you, didn't he?" He laughed. "Ah, straight people."

-Later-

Sherlock was walking along the streets thinking out loud. "According to the receipts, Van Coon had a package he was carrying with him, which is why he took a cab, then the Tube. But where—" Some hot army guy bumped into him. "Well, hello there—oh, it's you John."

"Were you about to flirt with me?"

"That word isn't in my mind palace. Anyway, Van Coon brought a package to this street, which was hidden in his suitcase, but I don't know where specifically he went," Sherlock said.

"What about that place?" John pointed to a store that could only be described as 'shady as fuck'.

They walked in. There was a bunch of shady af merchandise, including some cats, They waved at John, and pierced his soul with their stare.

John heard a strange chanting in the back of his mind. **1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 1895 **

"Buy one!" said the shop owner. "Your wife will like!"

"Uh, no thanks."

"I LIKE CATS," Sherlock said.

John looked at the price tags on some shady cups. The number was the same as the graffiti! Plot twist af!

**Uuuughghghggh I'm sorry this chapter was so boring! I'm trying to keep most of the clues in the story just so this thing makes a little bit of sense. Hopefully next chapter will be more exciting. Stay tuned!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"It's the ancient number system Hangzhou," Sherlock explained as they walked. The numbers were floating around his head as he spoke. John had to keep ducking to avoid being hit. Several passerby were not so lucky, unfortunately. "Those were the numbers at the bank and the library." He picked up some vegetables and looked that the price tags. "So the numbers we saw were one and fifteen."

"Hooray for progress!"

-Later-

Sherlock was scoping out the Lucky Cat (aka shady af shop) from a very secure location.

John knocked on the mailbox. "How did you even get in there?"

"Quiet." He zoomed in his binoculars. "Van Coon must have been a smuggler during his trips to China. He had something in his suitcase, which he brought to that shady store over there. Dead Guy 2 was also a smuggler, seeing as he was a journalist who wrote about China."

"That makes sense. But why were they killed?"

"Maybe they stole something from the Chinese Mafia or whoever. Or maybe…"

"What?"

"Never mind." Sherlock somehow squeezed out of the mailbox slot. It was a horrifying and confusing thing to watch. "Let's go check out that flat!" He flew in through the open window.

John ran across the street and tried the door, only to find it locked. "Sherlock what the fuck?"

Meanwhile, Sherlock accidentally knocked over a vase but caught it Sanic fast before it could hit the ground. He noted there was already water in the place where it would have fallen—someone had already been there. The gay detective looked around. "Future me? Is that you?"

_dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdongdingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong_

John was at the door pressing the bell. "Hey Sherl you wanna let me in?"

Sherlock examined the carpet. "Someone was here before me. Size eight feet, if these Croc prints are anything to go by."

John took out a sledge hammer and raised it in front of the doorbell.

The consulting detective rubbed his chin. "Small, athletic...must be the acrobat. But why—"

**DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONG**

Sherlock ignored the bell. "—would he not close the window?"

"Maybe because he's still in here."

"That's a good idea, random voice! Wait…"

Acrobat Man started strangling Sherlock with a scarf, then pushed him to the floor and started kicking him, mugger style.

Downstairs, John was about to smash in the door when Acrobat Man opened it. "Who the hell are you?"

"No one. I strangled your boyfriend by the way."

"Okay. Wait a second..." But Acrobat Man had already run off.

Sherlock stumbled through the doorway a few minutes later.

"Took you long enough," John said. "Did you know I have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock coughed up some blood.

He noticed a note on the ground and picked it up.

_Dear Soo Lin,_

_Where are you? I still want to date you. I'm a nice guy. pls i'm lonely pls pls pls _

_Sincerely, your meninist friend_

The paper was from a notepad from the National Antiques Museum.

"Guess where we're going next."

-The National Antiques Museum-

"She resigned from her job so suddenly," Meninist said.

"What was the last thing she did on her final day?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, after she took a shower—"

"I meant at her _job_, you dumbfuck creep!" The detective slapped the boy upside the head.

They went to the basement, where Soo Lin had last been on her last day at her _job_. Sherlock saw something covered with a white sheet and pulled it off, letting out a scream.

John sprinted over, pulling out his gun. "Whatwhatwhatwhat?"

Sherlock hid his face in John's chest. "TIDDIES!"

There were indeed tiddies. It was a statue of a naked lady with the yellow graffiti on it.

"We need to find Soo Lin," John said. "She may have the answers we're searching for."

"I'VE SEEN HELL," Sherlock said. "THAT HORRIBLE IMAGE WILL FOREVER BE BURNED BENEATH MY EYELIDS, HAUNTING MY DREAMS, LEERING AT ME FROM DARK ALLEYWAYS, NEVER ESCAPE, NEVER FREE…"

"You'll get over it. Let's go find some clues!"

-Later-

They met the Graffiti Guy from before at one of those places where people skate around and do graffiti things.

"The best place to hide a tree is in a forest, don't you think?" Sherlock said. "Here, the graffiti markings would just be part of the scenery." He'd recovered for the most part, other than an eyepatch on his left eye to protect from right tiddies, and an eyepatch on his right eye to protect from left tiddies. So basically he was blind. "We're in the forest, right?"

"No…"

They split up to find more evidence. Sherlock tripped and fell several times due to his self-imposed blindness. John stumbled upon a wall that had a bunch of yellow graffiti on it. "Sherlock!"

He found the detective some ways down the railroad tracks. "Come on! I found a clue!"

"Coming!" Sherlock immediately tripped.

"For God's sake…" John picked up the smoll detective and started running, making sure to hold on tight to Dat Ass.

But when they got to the wall, the symbols were gone, apparently painted over.

"WTF? But they were right there!" John punched the wall. "Reveal your secrets to me!"

Sherlock grabbed John's head and started spinning him in circles. "Concentrate. What do you remember?" He was staring intensely into John's eyes, or would have if the eye patches hadn't been in the way. "Concentrate. Focus…" They started spinning faster and faster and faster—

"Where the fuck are we?"

"Inside the wall!"

They were in a strange realm full of dark blue paint and graffiti.

"Sherlock were you sniffing the paint or something?"

The detective began hopping around on the floating symbols. "Maybe. But there is no time for that! We must find the cluuueeeessss!"

John tried to hop after him. "Sherlock, wait!"

Sherlock began hopping faster after the rapidly retreating clues. "Quick, they're getting away!"

"Sherlock!"

"Faster!" Sherlock grabbed hold of the symbol beneath his feet. It tried to buck him off, but he held it tightly and began steering it toward his target.

John finally caught up and shoved his phone in his face. "I took a picture of the symbols. Dumbass."

"...Oh."

**You thought you had seen true crackfic before now? Fools!**

**Ok um question of the chapter...how would you protect ****against the tiddies?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

-Baker Street-

Sherlock's newly un-eyepatched eyes studied the symbols in John's picture. "Always in pairs," he said. "The numbers are always shown in pairs. But why?"

John was lying facedown on the floor, feeling very sleep-deprived. "Hmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnrnrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhh."

"Let's go find Soo Lin Yao. She'll be able to give us answers."

"Hmmmmmnnnnnnnnnmmmrrrrrrrr."

"Come on. Getcha head in the game." Sherlock began dragging John, face down, out the door.

"HmmmmmNNNmmmmNNNNmmmmNNN." That was John going down the stairs, his face hitting each step.

-The National Antiques Museum-

They were hiding under a table in the now-closed museum.

"Shheroolk why arrrrre we here?" John slurred.

"Shh. Soo Lin is bound to return here at some point."

"Why tho? She quit her job and…" There was a loud snore from the army doctor's direction.

"What? But it said she would show up in the script!" Sherlock waved a piece of paper around. "Don't tell me that two-faced rotten biscuit Moffat lied to me agai—" He was interrupted by a teapot smashing into his face. Sherlock staggered to his feet. "What the fu—"

Soo Lin leaped out of the shadows and roundhouse kicked him in the face, interrupting him once more. "Who are you? You just broke my teapot with your face!"

After they cleared certain things up (like the fact that Sherlock can break anything with his razor-sharp cheekbones) they sat down to discuss things like grown ups.

"So this assassin guy is hunting you too?" Sherlock asked.

"That reminds me...I still don't know who that 'boyfriend' was that he mentioned," John said.

"You're both stupid," Soo Lin said. "Lemme just put it for you straight up. I used to smuggle shit for this Chinese Mafia-type group called the Black Lotus. My brother, Assassin Guy, asked me to help track down these two guys and whatever they stole, but I refused. So their leader, Shan, gave orders to kill me. I think that about covers it."

"Okay. What about this code?" Sherlock pulled out a printed picture of the graffiti John had found earlier.

"It's based on a book—"

The lights in the museum suddenly went out.

"Oh, shit," Soo Lin said. "He's here."

"AIGHT MOTHERFUCKERS LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!" came a shouting voice that echoed around the room.

"Well, well, I'm gonna take the show…" Sherlock thought for a solid minute. "...of the road! Get rekt!" And with that, he was off to find Assassin Guy.

John grabbed Soo Lin's arm. "Let's find somewhere to hide!"

"Fuck that!" Soo Lin pulled a machine gun and started firing at Assassin Guy. John shrugged and went to go help Sherlock.

AG did a triple flip, crowdsurfed through thin air, and ducked behind a column. "Now where is that gay guy…?"

There was a loud crash as Sherlock busted through the window and tackled AG.

"How the fuck did you get outside the building?" AG flipped onto his hands, sending Sherlock flying. The detective scrambled to his feet and hid behind a glass case full of skulls. AG started firing again.

"Don't hurt them! They're my friends!" the smoll detective cried.

The gunfire stopped.

"Uh...thanks?"

Back with Soo Lin, her assassin brother had finally found her.

He raised the gun. "Mmm whatcha say…"

"Fool! You're supposed to sing that after you shoot me!"

"Wait, really? Well in that case…" AG pulled the trigger. But it was too late. Soo Lin threw a smoke bomb and disappeared.

John and Sherlock sprinted into the room, but there was no sign of either Badass Asian.

John slowly shook his head. "Something tells me we won't be seeing Soo Lin again."

"Like the script?"

"Don't even start with that."

-New Scotland Yard-

John and Sherlock confronted Dimmock, ready to beat his ass for being an idiot.

"How did you not notice that the two dead guys were smugglers?" Sherlock was close to bitch slapping the cop. "They were working for a Chinese mafia organization called the Black Lotus, and were working here in London right under your nose."

Dimmock crossed his arms. "We don't know that for sure."

Sherlock pulled two objects out of his pockets. "Fucking see this? Looks pretty goddamn legit to me."

The cop jumped back in horror. "Holycrapsonofawhattheshit?"

John, who had been distracted by a mime scaling the outside of the building, turned back to the others. "Sherlock, why were you keeping human feet in your coat?" he asked very, very, very calmly.

"It's the feet from the dead guys. See, look at the black lotus tattoo they have. That's proof enough."

Dimmock was slowly dialing 999 on his phone, then realized that he was a cop. He threw his phone out the window in embarrassment, hitting the mime and causing him to silently plummet to his death. "Okay, okay, I believe you! What do you want me to do?"

"Hit me up with the books that they have. All of them."

-Baker Street-

Sherlock surveyed all the books they had collected. There was a shit ton of books. So many that some had to be taped to the ceiling. "Alright alright alright Mattew McCouaghagouaoguaguahgagnahey. Let's get started."

Mrs. Hudson walked in, saw the books...and walked right back out.

"Fifteen and one," Sherlock continued, oblivious as usual. "That must mean you turn to page fifteen and read the first word. Now we just have to find a book that they both have."

John looked around at the piles of books. "This is just like when I was looking for the Arkenstone in all that gold."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I have no idea."

Dimmock walked in. "Is there something I can do to help?"

"Get the fuck out," Sherlock said.

"...Alrighty then." Dimmock left.

After many, many, many hours of searching, John's alarm went off.

"Wakey wakey! Time to go to work! Get up!" Sherlock said, unaffected by sleep deprivation due to his being a vampire or something.

John's eye twitched. "I've BEEN UP."

-John's Job, whatever that is-

STCAPM (Sarah the chip-and-PIN machine) jabbed her scanning device into John's rib cage, the electrical surge effectively waking him up from where he'd fallen asleep on his desk.

"...annihilation and destruction! Sorry, what?"

"дозволяє піти на побачення піп сигнал мема повзучості"

"Okay, sounds good to me."

-Back at Baker Street-

When John walked in, Sherlock was sitting in the middle of a pile of books, his arm thrown dramatically over his face. "UUuUuUUuggGGGGhhHhH I need some air. We're going out tonight."

"Sorry, I can't," John said, then made a B) face. "I've got a date tonight."

"What the fuck is a date?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"Yea that's what I was suggesting," Sherlock said.

"No I don't think so…" John said heteronormatively.

Sherlock made a :((((((((( face. "Well, if you truly insist, why don't you take her to this?" He handed John an ad for the Yellow Dragon Circus.

"This looks really shady...I'm in!"

**John, at full volume: I'M ALWAYS A SLUT FOR SHADY**

**Well I'm back from vacation! I bet you guys didn't even notice I was gone hehehe**

**I made Soo Lin a bit more badass than in the show because I feel like Asian ladies should be portrayed as ****they actually are: smart, badass and better than everyone else lol Us Asians gotta stick together.**

**Anyway...bonus points to anyone who can tell me what STCAPM is saying WITHOUT a translator! (I used Google Translate so it's probably horrible grammar oops)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

John and Sarah were at the ticket booth at the circus.

"Two tickets under the name Holmes," John said.

"Actually, I have three tickets reserved under that name."

"Uh, no, we only reserved two…"

Sherlock burst through the nearest window. "Shia surprise!"

John's eye twitched. "Can I talk to you? In private?"

-In Private-

"A Chinese circus in London for one day. It fits, John," Sherlock said. "One of them has to be Assassin Guy. Only an acrobat would be able to do a triple backflip and crowdsurf through thin air!"

John gave him a deadpan look. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"I—"

"If you say the script, I swear to God you never be able to sit down again."

"I wasn't going to say anything about the script," Sherlock said.

"Don't fucking lie to me. Now let's go see this show." John marched off, leaving the smoll sad detective behind.

Later, the three of them were standing and watching the show. They had this masked guy chained to a post, with a crossbow pointed at him. A bag was slowly dripping sand, which resulted in a bunch of sciency stuff that would eventually cause the crossbow to fire.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock said. "Bla bla bla sciency stuff, and the man has to escape before the crossbow fired."

The masked man struggled, giving theatrical grunts which were more suited for a porno than a circus, but whatever. After a few minutes, the guy stopped. "Uh, guys, I think something's stuck—" His words were cut off as the crossbow fired straight into his chest.

There was an awkward silence. "Okay, well…" The announcer lady cleared her throat. A couple of guys ran out and pushed the impaled performer behind a curtain. "Onto the next act!"

"I forgot that they're not actually circus people." John chuckled, unaffected by the man's violent death.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the Chinese bird-spider," the announcer lady said.

A gigantic bird descended from the ceiling on one of those long scarf things...well, it would have been a bird except it had eight legs. Hence the spider part.

Several people in the audience screamed in terror but they were in too deep to leave now.

John looked around. "Wait, where did Sherlock go?"

A loud voice sounded behind the curtain at the back of the stage. "HEY JOHN, I FOUND THE SPRAY PAINT THE ASSASSIN GUY USED!"

"Found him…"

Sherlock's shouting was followed by several hand-to-hand combat noises, but since that wasn't nearly as horrifying as the eight-legged bird, no one really cared.

At least, no one cared until—

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Sherlock came flying through the curtain, nearly hitting the bird-spider. A masked warrior guy came jumping out after him, holding a knife in one hand.

"Fuck this shit, I'm out," the bird-spider said, and flew away into the night.

John tackled the warrior guy and disarmed him, but was pushed back with a kick.

He picked up the knife and raised it to deliver the final blow…

And STCAPM used her totally legit laser to cut him in half, Kingsman style.

-Baker Street-

Sherlock was back to trying to decipher the cipher (does that count as a pun?). STCAPM was looking over his shoulder at the picture of the symbols, much to his annoyance.

"What, are you going to try and scan this or something?" Sherlock said irritably.

STCAPM used her scanner thing to point at the paper.

"Yeah, it's a fucking paper with a code on it, I—holy shit there are words on here! JOHN!"

"I'm right here, there's no need to shout!" John snapped from where he was sitting next to Sherlock.

"Soo Lin must have started translating it!" Sherlock continued, not caring about the damage done to John's ears. "Let's see...it says 'nine mill.' for the first two pairs."

"What does mill. mean? Million?"

"No, it means a fucking windmill. Of course it's million!"

STCAPM beeped.

"Soo Lin must have been using the book to translate it!" Sherlock stood up and made a dash for the window. "It's probably still on her desk!"

He jumped through the window and onto the street, almost knocking over a German couple. We know they are German because they started cursing at him in German. One of them waved a book at him, which happened to be London A-Z. Sherlock had a bunch of flashbacks of the same book in Van Coon's, at Dead Guy #2's, and on Soo Lin's desk.

"Yooooo I figured it out!" Sherlock quickly mugged the Germans of their book and all of the guy's condoms.

The couple shrugged it off and walked away, since Germans are hardcore af.

Sherlock flipped through the book, translating and scribbling the message as he went. "Nine…..mill….for…..jade…..pin…...this…..shit…..is…...taking….forever…"

Meanwhile, John and STCAPM were hanging out when someone knocked on the door.

John went down to open the door and saw a guy in a hood. "You look pretty shady. What's up?"

"Do you have the treasure?"

"Hell yeah I do! The treasure of friendship—"

John was cut off as the guy smashed a baseball bat into his face.

-Back with Sherls-

A few minutes after John was knocked out, Sherlock flew in through the window. "HEY JOHN I SOLVED IT!" He saw some yellow graffiti sprayed on the wall. "The meaning of this is implied, but I still kinda want to find the literal translation." He got out his book. "Hey….there…..you….motherfucker….."

-A Mysterious Place-

John woke up tied to a chair in a mysterious place. It looked a bit like a train tunnel, and there were garbage cans full of fire everywhere.

The announcer lady from before stepped into view. "Well, well, well, Mr. Holmes. I see you have come to."

"wtf? Holmes?" John asked.

"Yes. You are Mr. Holmes. And this is your girlfriend, is it not?" She gestured to STCAPM, who was tied up too but it didn't do much good since she was a straight up box.

John started laughing his ass off. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA Even I know that there is no version or incarnation of Sherlock Holmes that would be straight."

The lady became very angry. "SHERLOCK IS STRAIGHT! MOFFAT SAID SO!" she screamed.

"Okay, okay, stop screaming. My head hurts." John winced.

"I am Shan, leader of the Black Lotus. Three times we have tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes. Do you know what it means when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

"That you're a shitty assassin?"

Shan bitch-slapped John. "SHUT UP!" She took a moment to calm down. "Where is the treasure?"

"What treasure? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"I'm calling bullshit!" said one of the guards standing nearby.

"Shut up, Steve!" Shan loaded up the giant crossbow sitting in the middle of the room and fired it at Steve's face. She loaded it again and pointed it at STCAPM. "Now, you can tell me where the treasure is, or I'll shoot your girlfriend."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes for fuck's sake!" John shouted.

"Bitch I might be!" came a voice from the end of the tunnel.

It was….JOHN CENA!

Shan and her henchmen cried out in surprise as JOHN CENA sprinted down the tunnel, knocking over the garbage cans as he went. Shan aimed her gun at JOHN CENA but JOHN CENA was too quick and dodged all the bullets that Shan fired at JOHN CENA. Assassin Guy whipped out his scarf and tried to strangle JOHN CENA but at that moment the crossbow went off. STCAPM managed to tilt to the side enough to allow the arrow to fly past her and hit Assassin Guy in the face. The pro-wrestler SUSUSUPER SLAMSLAMSLAMMED the rest of the henchmen. Shan had already run off. JOHN CENA ran out the way he came.

A few minutes later, Sherlock came puffing down the tunnel. "Sorry guys! I would have gotten here sooner but there were no windows for me to jump through!" He looked around, seeing the unconscious men all over the floor. John (Watson) and STCAPM were still tied up. "What the fuck happened here?"

"We were saved by some guy called JOHN CENA," John replied, disturbed by the way his voice automatically rose into a shout. He turned to STCAPM. "Sorry. Next date won't be like this."

Some words appeared on STCAPM's screen. _Next date? Nice try trash can. I'm out this bitch._ She turned on her rocket boosters and flew through the tunnel ceiling, never to be seen again.

They watched her leave. "I know who stole the treasure. The jade pin worth nine million pounds," Sherlock said. "It was Van Coon."

"How do you know?" John asked.

"The lotion." His eyes turned a bit maniacal. "The lotion tells all…"

"I'm not even going to ask."

-The Bank Place-

Amanda, Van Coon's PA, was sitting at her desk when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"He brought you a present, didn't he?" came Sherlock's voice.

"Uh, yeah. How did you know?"

"The lotion on your desk," the detective replied, crawling out from underneath the desk and ignoring Amanda's scream. "It's the same brand as the hand soap in Van Coon's apartment. As you know, straight men don't use soap, so it must have been for you. So you must have been…..dating? Is that what you straights call it?"

"Yeah…" Amanda shrugged. "He was always running off, kept missing our dates. Finally I threatened his Macklemore collection so he gave me this as an apology." She pulled a jade green hair pin from her hair.

"Do you know how much that's worth?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh no…?"

"Nine. Million. Pounds."

"Haha you're kidding right? Y…Oh my god." The Kill Bill sirens started playing as Amanda stared into space.

Sherlock chuckled. "Looks like my work is done here." And out the window he went.

**Thank god I'm finally done with this god-forsaken episode. TGG should be better. The only reason I got through this was because of a little help from someone...and his name is JOHN CENA**

**Ok but seriously sorry for being memeing trash. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"UUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH I'M BOOOOOORRRREEED," Sherlock roared into the air, firing a gun at the Lenny Face painted in yellow spray paint on the wall.

John stormed up the stairs, hands over his ears. "Sherlock what the FUCK?" He tackled the detective to the floor and confiscated the gun, all while maintaining unnecessary body contact.

"There's no interesting cases right now!" Sherlock said with a :( face.

"Too bad so sad." John got up and walked over to the fridge. "Please tell me you have some food in here. I'm starving." He opened it. "...That's a severed head."

"Wow, John, I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

John slammed the fridge door so hard the Big Ben exploded. "Don't engage, don't engage…"

"I started reading your blog posts, by the way," Sherlock said, flopping down on the sofa like a big baby.

"Oh, really? What did you think?"

"It was shit. You called me ignorant."

John was ready to fight. "Yeah, well, most people don't not know that the Earth goes around the Sun!"

"Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff—"

"Okay screw this, I'm going back out." John grabbed his coat and left.

A few minutes later Mrs. Hudson walked in. She was relieved not to find any more books. "Did you two have another domestic?"

"UGGH." Sherlock threw his pillow at her, which missed by several feet. He backflipped off the sofa (somehow…) and looked out the window. "Look at that," he said softly. "It's so quiet and peaceful. I wish some**THING WOULD EXPLODE**," he finished, his voice rising to a scream.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Well, I'm sure—what the fuck did you do to my wall?"

Sherlock cackled.

"You'll pay for this one day! In rent!" Mrs. Hudson stormed out of the room.

"That wasn't a very—" Sherlock's reply was cut off by the massive explosion that shattered the windows and sent him flying. "Santa really is real," he mumbled before passing out.

-Under a Bridge-

John was staying with STCAPM under a bridge, where she had taken up residence after her great escape in the last episode. It was a nice place, with a working TV, a couch, a fridge that was only half-infested with jackalopes, and many dirt.

"There has been a massive explosion in central London," the reported was saying from the TV. "A few people were injured, but this probably wouldn't have happened if a certain man with ambiguously-colored hair hadn't decided to leave his apartment for the night, thus leaving his very smoll flatmate all alone. You suck, unnamed army doctor."

"At me next time," John grumbled, standing up. "Sorry Sarah, I've gotta go!"

-Baker Street-

John kicked open the door, even though it was already open. "Sherlock! Are you okay?"

The detective was sitting in his chair. He gestured toward the broken windows. "It wasn't me this time!"

"Okay, well…" John noticed the other person sitting across from Sherlock and narrowed his eyes. "You…"

"I would throw another smoke bomb, but I don't believe any sort of explosion would be welcome here," Mycroft said.

"That's good."

"STROBE LIGHTS!" Mycroft threw a strobe lights bomb.

"I'm not going to take your stupid case," Sherlock said, ignoring John's blinded yelling.

"Don't be ridiculous. It is of national importance." Out of nowhere, a British flag began waving behind Mycroft.

"If it's so important, why don't you investigate yourself?"

"Oh, no I couldn't possibly do that. I have…." The room became dark. "_**Other things**_ to attend to."

John scowled. "You wanna tone it the fuck down with the special effects?"

"Very well. Stephen, you are dismissed."

No one saw him leave, but everyone felt the absence of an ominous presence.

Sherlock turned to John. "How's Sarah? How was the couch?"

"He slept in some dirt, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected him.

"How did you…? Whatever," John said, used to their deductive capabilities by now.

"You have some dirt on your ass."

"Oh."

Mycroft looked around the flat. "What is it like to live with Sherlock? Hellish, I imagine."

John looked at Mycroft, then at the busted windows, then at Mycroft, then at the bullet holes in the wall, then at Mycroft, then at the lizard man on the ceiling, then at Mycroft, and then back at the lizard man. "Sherlock, when the hell did that get there?"

"Okay, that one actually wasn't me."

They continued the conversation, though all three men were uncomfortable due to the lizard man's presence. He simply stared, never blinking.

"ANYWAY," Mycroft said with unnecessary volume. "A man was found dead on the train tracks this morning. His name was Andrew West, and he had on him a memory stick containing the Bruce-Partington Programme, a new missile defense system. After the accident, we found that the memory stick had gone missing."

"I guess he got killed because he didn't want to be PARTINGton with that memory stick, HAHAHHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He and Sherlock laughed loudly for a solid five minutes while Mycroft scowled into the distance.

"You must find—YOU MUST FIND THE MEMORY STICK," Mycroft said, trying to talk over Sherlock and John's roars of laughter. He flexed his knuckles. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock became serious. "Get! Out!" He picked up Mycroft and threw him out the window.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. Sherlock picked it up, nodded, and hung up. "It's Lestrade. He had a new case, one more interesting than BOREce-Partington." They left the flat, laughing loud enough to wake the dead.

-Scotland Yard-

"Hey," Lestrade greeted lethargically. Or should I say….Lestrargically. "So it turns out that explosion wasn't a gas leak. The only thing left in the building was this strong box. A _very_ strong box."

"A _**VERY**_ STRONG BOX," the box in question said, punching a random cop through the wall with its strong box arms.

"...Okay," Lestrade said, glancing at the large, bloody hole in the wall. "Anyway, you'll never guess what we found inside.

"Peanuts," Sherlock immediately guessed.

"My heterosexuality," John said. Everyone in the immediate vicinity smacked him upside the head.

"No," Lestrade said. "It was…..a phone."

***X-Files Theme plays***

**Y'all better savor these frequent updates, I don't think I'll have as much time once school starts again. As always, feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think. It helps me out a lot!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"A phone?"

Lestrade handed Sherlock a pink iPhone. It was almost identical to the one from the case with the pink lady.

"_You have one new message_," the phone said.

"Siri, play the message," Sherlock said.

"_Sorry, I couldn't find 'the message' in your music. I can check Apple Music too if you update the latest software and subscribe_," Siri said.

"No, play the voice message!"

"_Who would you like to text?_"

"Don't text anyone! I want you to play the voice mess—"

"_Message: 'Would you like to have sex?' to Molly Hooper. Would you like to send?_"

Sherlock screamed and threw the phone against the wall.

"_Message sent._"

While Sherlock was looking for the nearest blunt weapon, the phone went off again.

"_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep,_" the phone said in Siri's voice. "You have one new photo message."

This time, Sherlock manually opened the message. It was a picture of some crappy basement room with peeling paint on the walls.

"That's a crappy looking flat," John said. "I feel sorry for anyone who has to live in that building."

"Funny you should say that…"

-Baker Street-

"Wait, seriously?" John looked around the room of 221c. It looked even crappier in person.

Sherlock walked over to the pair of sneakers sitting in the middle of the room. He bent down and continuously inhaled their scent for so long John and Lestrade wondered how long he could go without passing out. Ater a good ten minutes or so, he stood up.

"They are shoes."

The pink iPhone started ringing. Sherlock answered it, hearing a shaky, tearful female voice on the other end.

"H-Hello sexy," the voice said.

Sherlock was very uncomfortable. "Um...who is this? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying. I'm typing. This stupid bitch is reading it out loud."

"That's not very nice," Sherlock said.

"What? What's he saying?" John asked, but was silenced by a sneaker being shoved in his face.

"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock," came the voice from the phone. "Or I'm going to be so...naughty…"

"Dude, are you hitting on me or threatening me?" Sherlock asked. But the line had already gone dead.

-St. Bart's-

Sherlock was examining the shoes through a microscope somehow. It was a very scientific process.

John walked into the lab. "Any luck?"

"Fool! This delicate process does not depend on mere luck! It is a scientific and precise—"

"You have half the sneaker shoved under the microscope. I'm pretty sure you can't see anything if you do it like that."

"Whatever," Sherlock said. "Pass me my phone."

John looked around. "Where is it?"

"Somewhere on my person. I deleted its exact location from my mind palace."

The army doctor sighed and walked over to Sherlock, feeling around to try and find the phone. "Hey, I think I got it."

"...That's not a phone."

"Oh SHIT." John jumped back.

"I'll just forget that happened." Sherlock picked his phone up from the desk and checked it, ignoring John's outraged glare.

Before John could throw any punches, the door opened and Molly walked in.

"Hi guys!"

"Hi, I guess," Sherlock said.

"This is Jim, my new boyfriend!"

And in walked Jim, the new boyfriend.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Gay."

Molly frowned. "Um, what?"

"I can recognize my own kind."

"Ha, ha!" Jim laughed a fake laugh. "Well, it's nice to finally meet you, Sherlock Holmes." He took out a sharpie and slowly, conspicuously wrote his number onto Sherlock's arm. "Well, have a nice day!" And he waltzed out of the room.

Molly turned to Sherlock, who was adding Jim's number to his phone. "What do you mean, gay? We're together!"

"Yeah, well, obviously you should get _un_together and save yourself the pain," Sherlock said.

Molly ran from the room, crying loudly.

"Wow...nice job with that, Romeo," John said.

"I'm not Romeo. I'm Fabio." Becoming bored with the topic, Sherlock threw one of the shoes at John. "Deduce. Go."

"But—I—fine." He studied the shoe, rubbing his chin with one hand. "Let's see...well worn sole, name written on the inside in marker, laces up…...aha! This is a shoe!"

"Fuck you." Sherlock took the shoe back.

"Maybe later," John said, wiggling his eyebrows. Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. "But, uh, you know! As a friend!"

Sherlock had a eureka moment! "Carl Powers!"

"Carl what now?"

"These are his shoes. In nineteen eighty nine he drowned in a swimming pool during a competition. It might have just been a seizure but his shoes were gone. I thought that was pretty shady but the police wouldn't listen."

"Sounds like a good time," John said. "What about that super important case Mycroft was talking about?"

"Oh, I've already found someone to handle that."

-Mycroft's Office-

John was waiting at the desk, anticipating an explosion or lightning strike or some shit like that. To his surprise, Mycoft simply floated down from the ceiling on his umbrella.

"Really?" John asked. "No flashy lights or loud noises?"

"Ah, well, after the fire of '87, everyone on the street requested that I keep my dramatic effects away from the office," Mycroft explained.

"Oh. Well, that's a relief." John relaxed a little.

"JUST KIDDING YOU FUCKER!" Mycroft threw a smoke bomb and making the army doctor scream in surprise. "HAHA TAKE THAT YOU MIDDLE CLASS FOOL!"

John cracked his knuckles and stared into space, his expression growing dark. "One day...one day they will all learn…" He brightened up. "So, Sherlock sent me to get more information on the missile plans case. I'm sure there's a partingTON of facts I need to know." He high-fived himself.

Mycroft was not amused. "Fine. I'll tell you what I know."

-Baker Street-

Sherlock was bent over his microscope, deep in thought. After a while, he jumped up, startling Mrs. Hudson.

"Poison!" He said. "It must have been clostridium botulinium."

"Um, what?" Mrs. Hudson asked. It was not a wise move.

"There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium, and hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium, and nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium, and iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium…" Sherlock started singing The Elements, breakin it down hard.

When John came home, he found the table turned over with Sherlock lying facedown. Half a carrot was duct-taped to his head.

He decided not to ask.

**Ugh school starts in less than a week for me :( What about you guys?**

**Also, I've been meaning to put this in the AN but I forget every time: credit goes to Ariane DeVere whose transcripts I've been using to get the lines exact.**

**Feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think; it helps me out a ****lot!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"They must have poisoned his medication or something," Sherlock said.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" John had missed the part about the benelinium cumberdium stuff.

Sherlock opened the window (_opened_, instead of breaking it. That's character development right there) and screamed down onto the street, "THERE WAS CLOSTRIDIUM BOTULINIUM IN CARL POWERS'S TRAINERS!" He leaned back. "That oughta get the bomber's attention and stop the timer."

-A Random Car-

The woman from the phone call was sitting in her car with bombs strapped to her chest. She looked up from her Candy Crush game as a bomb disposal team ran towards her.

"Wait, what?"

-Scotland Yard-

They got a new message from the pink phone. This one was a picture of a car, along with four beeps.

"The fourth test," Sherlock said.

"Wait, what? But that would mean the last one was the fifth test, since there were five beeps," John said.

"Maybe they're counting down."

"That's fucking stupid."

The phone rang, and Sherlock answered it.

"That was clever of you, guessing Carl Powers," came the voice, which was a man's this time. Though they could not see him, the man was standing at the side of a busy street with wires visibly hanging from under the bottom of his bulky jacket. A red laser dot from a sniper rifle was pointed at his chest. Hundreds of people walked by him, not giving a shit for some reason. "This time, you have eight hours to solve the puzzle."

Sherlock rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Aight let's get crackin!"

"Okay, well, we got a location on the car in the picture, I guess," Lestrade said.

-Somewhere Else-

They found the car from the picture near a river. There was a good amount of blood splashed onto the console between the two front seats.

"We looked at the DNA stuff and it matched Mr. Monkford, the guy who rented the car," Lestrade said, leaning his face against the car.

"Do you think he was murdered?" John asked.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said. "Or is could have been man door hand hook car door."

"What?"

Sherlock ignored him, pulling a business card out of the glove box. "Aha. Janus Cars."

-Janus Cars-

They were sitting in an office with the Janus Cars boss guy or whatever. John pointed at the logo, which featured a large J and C with the rest of the letters next to it. "If you look at the small letters it says anus ars."

The boss guy, named Ewert, frowned but did not reply. "Well, um, what can I do for you?"

"This will only take a moment. I wouldn't want you to fall BEHIND on your work," Sherlock said. "Mr. Monkford hired a car from you yesterday, didn't he?"

"Yup. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!" Mr. Ewert said.

Sherlock nodded. "Sounds nice, but I think I'll pASS. I usually take a cab."

Mr. Ewert's eye twitched. "Indeed."

"Did you know Mr. Monkford?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock answered before Mr. Ewert could. "BUTT he did rent a car to him."

"No idea what happened to him, poor guy," Mr. Ewert said, taking a deep breath.

"Don't worry!" Sherlock walked around the desk and patted him on the shoulder with his twelve inch hands, all while discreetly looking at his neck. "We'll get to the BOTTOM of this in no time."

Mr. Ewert stayed silent, audibly grinding his teeth.

"It might have been a simple accident," Sherlock said, taking the man's wallet and looking through it without an ounce of subtlety. "Maybe he was REAR-ended."

"Okay, time to go," John said, handing the wallet back to its rightful owner and grabbing Sherlock as the sound of Mr. Ewert's veins popping echoed through the office.

"Did you get anything out of that?" John asked once they were a safe distance away. "Or were you just fucking with him?"

"You started it," Sherlock said. "Oh yeah, and Mr. Ewert is a fake ass bitch. He had a clear tan from a business shirt and his wallet had Columbian peso notes in it. Mr. Monkford needed to escape his life so Mr. Ewert helped him move to Columbia. That is the true purpose of Butt Trucks, or whatever the company is called." He threw his head back and screamed into the air, "MR. MONKFORD WAS RELOCATED TO COLUMBIA! That should do the trick."

"Would you _stop_ doing that?" John said, covering his ears.

-The Next Day-

They were hanging out in a cafe, waiting for the next puzzle. Soon enough they got three beeps and a picture of a middle-aged woman.

"Who—"

"That's Connie Prince, famous make-over TV star!" John said. "She was found dead a couple days ago."

Sherlock stared. "Do you exclusively watch crappy television shows?"

"Yeah, and I also read crappy blogs, like that one called The Science of Deduction." #REKT

-Bart's-

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were inspecting Connie's body in the morgue.

Lestrade shrugged. "She had one of those makeover shows, right? She was going places."

"The only place she's going is the GRAVEYARD." Sherlock high-fived himself. "Anyway, the story is that she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. But the tetanus would have taken over a week to kill her and she's been dead for two days. So it must have been injected after the fact. But how?" He pointed at John. "You. Go find shit out."

"'Kay." John left.

"Why is the bomber even doing this?" Lestrade asked. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"He seems like a nice guy," Sherlock said. "He's helping us uncover the crimes of London!"

"...If you say so."

-The Prince's House-

John was talking to Connie's brother Kenny. Which is kind of bullshit if you ask me, because their names sound weirdly similar. Anyway,

"We're devastated. Of course we are," Kenny said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Can I get you anything, by the way?" he asked in a normal tone.

"Uh, no thanks," John said, a bead of sweat rolling down his face as he noticed the hairless cat creeping toward the sofa. It's dark eyes stared into his soul, tearing his very mind apart and distorting his perception of reality forever.

"Raoul, our housekeeper, has been a great comfort," Kanye said.

"Uh, sure." The cat was getting closer.

"Still, it's nice to know she's at peace now."

The cat had leapt onto John's lap with a sandpapery growl. "Okaywellgottagobye!" John threw the cat into Kenny's face and fled.

-Baker Street-

Sherlock walked in, carrying a TV in his arms.

"Where did you get that?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Lestrade jerked awake.

"The gettin' place," Sherlock answered. "I have some very interesting information on Connie and her brother, though." He turned on the TV, revealing one of the episodes starring Kanye himself. I mean Kenny. Whatever.

"You look simply pasty!" Connie said. "Well, there's only one thing for it!" The audience cheered as she pulled out a grenade launcher.

"I don't suppose they got along too well," Sherlock said over the loud explosion noise from the TV.

The phone rang—this time Sherlock's personal one.

John's voice came in a fearful whisper. "Sherlock, i-it's after me."

"Wait, what? We don't do this scene until next episode."

"SHUT UP." John shouted...quietly. "It's a hairless thingy and it's after me!"

Sherlock sighed. "I'll be right over."

**I would apologize for all the butt puns in this chapter...but you bet your sweet ass I'm not sorry.**

**Oh noooo the hairless cat has escaped from Donald Trump's head! Important question: who is worse, Donald Trump or Magnussen?**

**Thanks for reading, and leave a comment telling me what you think, it helps me out a lot!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Sherlock arrived at the Princes's house and found John hiding in the closet.

"I feel the need to point out that this was the first place I looked," Sherlock said.

"Haha, you're so fuAAAAAAAA!" John stopped mid-snap to scream as Trump Cat walked in.

The cat and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment, then both gave a nod of understanding and the cat walked away.

"Oh my god thank you so much," John said. "If I weren't still in this closet I would give you a blowjob right now."

Sherlock looked straight into the camera.

After an amazing escape through one of the windows, they left the house.

"It was the cat that got the tetanus into her system. It must have been," John said.

"How do you figure that?"

"Because it was fucking evil!"

"Lovely idea," Sherlock said. "But not quite the right answer."

"Bullshit! There was disinfectant on the cat's claws. She put it there—and it must have scratched her in the process, getting the tetanus in her bloodstream."

"Bah, the disinfectant has nothing to do with it. You saw the whole house. The floor was scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant. _Your mom _smells of disinfectant. No, the cat had nothing to do with it."

John sighed. "Okay…"

-Lestroodle's Office-

"It was revenge," Sherlock was explaining to John and Lestroodle. "Raoul, the houseboy, was still salty about the time Connie blew up her brother with a grenade launcher."

John frowned, thinking back to the still-intact Kenny he had met less than an hour ago. "Wait, how did he—"

"Because shut up. Anyway, Raoul spiked her botox injection with botulinium, thus killing her." Sherlock leaned over to the window and screamed the answer out into the air.

A moment later, the phone rang. It was an old blind woman—another bomb victim. "Please, help me."

"Where are you?"

"He was so...His voice..."

"That's not what I asked!" Sherlock said. "Don't give me any description!"

"His voice was so soft…"

They waited for a gunshot in tense silence, but nothing happened.

-Speedy's Cafe-

The sniper in charge of the old woman put down his sandwich as his phone rang. He picked up, holding it away from his ear as shouting ensued on the other side.

"I went to get something to eat!" he snapped. "What the fuck do you want me to do, sit there for twelve fucking hours aiming a rifle at an old lady? She can barely walk on her own! Yeah, sure, go ahead and fucking fire me, see if I ca—" His rant was cut off by a bullet going through his brain.

The other patrons in the cafe continued eating, probably not even noticing what had occurred.

-Scotland Yard-

"Well, that was awkward," Sherlock said after a full five minutes of silence. "Hello?" he said into the phone. "Eh, whatever." He tossed the phone over his shoulder.

"Do you even care about what happens to these victims?" John asked. "Like, at all?"

"Will caring about them help me save them?" Sherlock replied.

John glared. "Nope."

Lestrade seemed to be paying attention for once. "Well, actually—"

"SHUT UP GRINDELWALD!" Sherlock turned back to John. "There's something I need to clear up: I don't actually give a shit about anyone. Except Danny Devito. So you can stop wasting your time."

John snatched the pink phone up from the floor. "Fine. No sex for you tonight, mister."

"Wait, what?"

-The Thames River-

They found the body of a round man wearing a white shirt, black pants, black socks, and no shoes.

"The Shoeless Man…" John mused.

"That sounds like shit," Sherlock said. "Call it The Hapless Doctor."

"Why?" John looked over at the dead guy. "Is he a doctor?"

"No, but you are. GET REKT SCRUB!"

John ignored this and went to inspect the body. "He's been dead for about twenty-four hours. Did he drown?"

"Asphyxiated," Lestrade said.

"Oh, yeah, obviously."

Sherlock stood up, done with his deductions. "The painting is a fake!"

"What?"

"We must find the Golem!"

"What?"

Sherlock sighed, remembering that his mind worked 320948209348209348329084 times the speed of everyone else. At least, that's what he liked to think. "The Golem is a famous assassin. This is his signature style, look." He pointed at the dead guy. There were dicks drawn in sharpie all over his face.

"He's a security guard at the Hickman Gallery where they were about to reveal a rediscovered painting, which is a fake, by the way," Sherlock said. "That was why the Golem killed him—because the security guard saw that the painting was a fake. I know from the number and size of dicks on his face. Let's go." Sherlock left.

-A Cab-

Sherlock had been staring at the pink phone for a solid hour. "Why hasn't he called yet? He's breaking his pattern."

John scowled. "It's not like he's your boyfriend or something." He looked out the window. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Nowhere. I just like sitting in cabs."

John blanched and turned to the driver. "Sir, how much do we owe you?"

"You're up to two hundred pounds right now."

"SHERLOCK!"

Moments later the consulting detective was roundhouse kicked out of the fifty-miles-per-hour vehicle and onto the sidewalk. His cheekbones broke the fall, fortunately.

He'd landed right in front of the Hickman Gallery. John jumped out next to him, suffering no damage for the same reason a rubber ball doesn't break when you drop it. Because both are under five foot.

"Alrighty then." Sherlock stood up and dusted off his cheekbones. "Why don't you head over to Dead Guy's house and see what you can find out about him. I'll be sitting in another cab."

-Dead Guy's Flat-

Dead Guy's roommate, Julie, showed John up to the room. "Yeah, he's a big fan of astronomy. Say, where is he, by the way?"

John cleared his throat. "Oh, you know, just…out. Swimming."

-Hickman Gallery-

A well-dressed woman, clearly in charge of the museum, stood in front of the newly-rediscovered painting. She jumped, hearing footsteps behind her.

"Does it bother you, that the painting is fake?" Sherlock asked, taking off the gigantic fake mustache he'd been wearing.

"It's not a fake," the woman said in a heavy European accent.

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"How did you even get in here?" the curator asked.

Sherlock shrugged as some loose plaster rained down from a hole in the ceiling. "...The door."

**SCHOOL! IS! KILLING! ME! I am very tired so here is the next chapter enjoy**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

John had finally caved in and was talking to Westye West's girlfriend to try and glean more information about the Bruce-Partington case. They had just finished up when a man with a bike walked up. He looked vaguely like Matthew McCoaguaghuoghuoagohuaguhghuoanahey.

"You with the police?" he asked.

"Uh...sort of. Like fifty percent."

"That sounds super shady but okay. Listen, I hope you catch the guy who did it. Westie would never steal those plans," Matthew Mchaoghaoy said.

"All right. I'll let ya know when we catch the guy," John said.

-Vauxhall Arches-

It was nighttime, and Sherlock and John were searching for the Golem.

Sherlock looked up at the sky. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

John copied his movement. There was like, one star, since they were still in London. Wait, no, it was just a helicopter. "...Sure."

At the end of the hall, they saw a mysterious shadow.

"There he is!" Sherlock pointed. "After him!"

They had only just caught up when the shadow got into a car and sped off.

"Shit!" Sherlock took a tennis ball out of his pocket and threw it at the car. It bounced off the bumper, rolling through the street and under a bike's front wheel, causing it to jerk forward. The biker was launched head first into the windshield of a parked car. His cranium shattered the two-inch-thick glass. Sherlock nodded to himself, satisfied.

"What exactly did that do?" John asked.

"The exact magnitude of the vibrations will reverberate through the ground, letting us know his exact pattern of travel. By tracing the angle and magnitude of the vibrations we can triangulate the coordinates and cross-reverse the exponents, thereby giving us the exact location of the epicenter."

"Sherlock, what the fuck did you just say?"

But the detective was already on the ground with a glass against the ground and his ear against the glass. "He's headed for the planetarium."

John sighed. "If you were anyone else, my foot would be up your ass right now."

"Kinky."

-The Planetarium-

They went to the room with the giant ass screen that shows planets and stuff. On the control panel were some notes from the dead guy they found in the river.

"Huh. This looks interesting."

"SHIA SURPRISE!" The mysterious shadow jumped down from the ceiling and tackled Sherlock.

"LSGALGHDFLAKJ!" Sherlock's hand slid across the control panel, making the whole room a weird orgy of space and dubstep.

"The fuck are you?" John whipped out his pistol. The Golem looked like a cross between Slenderman and Smeagol from Lord of the Rings.

"THE PRECIOUS!" Golem picked up Sherlock and hurled him at John. The guy was like eight feet tall, so it wasn't that unbelievable.

John and Sherlock went down on each other, making it very awkward for Golem. After a good ten minutes, they both stood up and faced their tall enemy.

"JOHNLOCK SUPER SLAM!" Sherlock picked up John, compacted him into a tiny cannonball, and hurled him at Golem.

"WHAT THE FUUUUuuuuu…" John just decided to go with it. He latched onto Golem's head, swung around to the back, and began strangling him. Golem struggled, his drinking-straw-proportioned arms flailing to try to get the army man off.

Sherlock pointed a gun at Golem's face. "Freeze! We gotcha surrounded!"

Golem decided not to comment on the fact that they did not quite have him surrounded. Instead, he swung around and body slammed Sherlock backwards, all 290 pounds plus John (like 5 pounds) smashing down on the gay detective.

"_Titan is the largest moon_," the space projector said. "_Yourmomyourmomyourmomyourmomyourmomyourmomyourmom…"_

Sherlock coughed up some blood. "Wow, you're good. Wanna join our team?"

"What?" John and Golem said simultaneously.

"Yeah!" Sherlock stood up, broken ribs forgotten. "You can help us track down Moriarty and any other blonde lying female assassins he may have in employment!"

Golem shrugged, picking up John by his head and putting him on his feet. "Sure, why the hell not?"

-Hickman Gallery-

Sherlock stood in front of the supposedly fake Vermeer painting, phrases like "Pigment analysis" and "Vermeer influences" swirling around his head.

Golem, John, Lestrade, and the curator, Ms. Wenceslas, stood off to one side.

"Does this normally happen?" Golem asked. He had to bend his neck a ninety degrees to avoid the ceiling.

"Why are you even here?" Lestrade asked.

"It's a fake. It _has_ to be," Sherlock said, his nose almost touching the painting.

"Can you not do that?" Ms. Wenceslas snapped. "The painting is not a fake, so you're wasting my time and ruining the paint."

Before Ms. Wenceslas could get #rekt, the pink phone rang.

Sherlock put it on speaker. "The painting is a fake. I solved it!"

Silence.

The detective sighed. "Okay fine I'll prove it. Just give me like ten seconds."

Finally, a voice came from the phone. "Ten...nine…" It was a young boy's voice.

"Holy shit that's actually pretty messed up," Lestrade said.

"It's a countdown," Sherlock said unnecessarily.

"Sherlock I swear to god if you do not give this man an answer within the next two seconds I will tear your legs off and shove both of them up your asshole," John said in a calm yet slightly terrifying voice.

"Kinky," Sherlock said.

"Three…" said the phone.

He turned back to the painting as John audibly clenched his fists. "Um? UMMM?"

"Two…"

"Aha!" Sherlock raised the phone. "THE VAN BUREN SUPERNOVA! IT WAS ONLY VISIBLE IN EIGHTEEN FIFTY EIGHT AND THEREFORE COULD NOT APPEAR IN A PAINTING MADE IN THE SIXTEEN FORTIES. GET REKT SCRUB!"

"There was no need for you to scream that entire thing in my fucking ear," the boy on the phone said. "Also, can someone please come get me?"

The room was relieved of its tension. Slowly, everyone turned to Ms. Wenceslas.

"So, I could probably arrest you for the shit storm you've caused with this whole painting business," Lestrade said.

"I swear I didn't know about those people who died!" the curator said. "I just wanted my thirty million."

"Thirty million what?" Golem asked.

"Thirty million gorillas," Mrs. Wenceslas snapped. "I put my career on the line for thirty million gorillas." She turned back to the members of the group with a bit more sense. "He put me in touch with a man in Argentina—a brilliant painter. His work could have fooled anyone. YES, yes, except for you Mister Detective," she added quickly when Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Wait, who put you in touch with the painter?" John asked.

"...Moriarty."

A long, tense silence ensued. John put his head in his hands. Sherlock did that hand thingy and stared into the distance. Lestrade's eyes were slightly glazed, though that may have been him falling asleep.

"Wait, I think I missed something," Golem said. "Who's Moriarty?"

**I had fun writing this chapter. This episode is also taking a bit longer than previously expected, so next chapter (the final one for TGG) might be a bit short. We'll see how it goes. **

**What do you guys think? Should Golem be part of the squad now? He might come in handy...**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

-Battersea Train Station-

John had finally been peer pressured by Mycroft into looking into the Bruce-Partington shit. He stood near the tracks with a tube guard, looking down at one particular spot.

"So this is where West's body was found?" he asked.

"Yeah," the tube guard replied. "You with the police?"

"Um….yes?"

"I hate 'em. Jumpers, I mean," the tube guard said.

John turned, slowly. "_What did you just say?_"

"I-I-I mean the people who jump in front of trains."

"That's what I thought," John said, smoothing out his terrible jumper. It had polka dots, stripes, chevron, houndstooth, and plaid all overlaid in one horrifying design.

"Seriously, though. It's all over in a split second for them—strawberry jam all over the lines. They don't have to live with themselves. But the drivers do."

"One: why do you keep talking? And two: why did you just compare my favorite condiment to blood?"

"Well, if you've ever been in—"

"Don't, son," John said. "Just don't."

Sherlock somehow crawled out from under the train tracks, which were flush against the ground. "As amusing as this has been to watch, I've just discovered a lead on the case."

The tube guard screamed and died of a heart attack.

"West wasn't killed here, because there's no blood on the tracks," Sherlock said, ignoring this.

-A Flat-

"Where are we?" John hissed as they climbed through the second story window.

"West's fiancee's brother's flat," Sherlock replied. "He stole the plans, killed West, and disposed of him…" He pointed to an overhang outside the window that was right next to the railroad tracks. "...there."

"Wait, why? That's a pretty dick move."

"Why don't we ask him ourselves?" Sherlock asked.

Just then, the guy from before walked in, clutching his bike like a weapon.

"Matthew Mcoeayaeohoyaeyaoeanahey!" John said.

Sherlock took a bike out of his pocket and threw it at Matt M's bike, causing the two modes of transportation to cancel out and vanish from existence. "Not today, son!"

Matt sat down, defeated. "I swear I didn't mean to kill him. I started dealing drugs, and—"

"You dealt drugs on a bike?" John snorted. "Man, that's sad."

"I hate you. Anyway, Westie told me about the top secret missile plans that he had. Maybe that was because he was beyond smashed. So I stole them, but the next day he confronted me. And then…" He bowed his head. "I didn't mean to do it."

"What did you do?" John asked.

"Eh, well, I pushed him down the stairs. And stabbed him thirty seven times in the chest. And ate one of his arms."

"What the fu—"

"I was going to throw him under the train but I timed it wrong and he landed on top. I guess it carried him away."

Sherlock stood up. "You fail at life. Now give me the memory stick and go back to being irrelevant."

Joe stood up and disappeared from existence.

-Baker Street-

Sherlock was taking up about 1 cm cubed on the couch and watching some crappy television show.

John walked in. "I think I'm gonna head over to Sarah's now. There's some leftover risotto in the fridge if you're planning on eating."

"Hetero more like heterno."

"What?"

"Nothing. Bye." Sherlock's smollness increased exponentially.

The detective waited until John was gone, then opened the window and screamed out, "THE POOL. MIDNIGHT. I HAVE THE BORACE PARTYTIME WHATEVER FLASH DRIVE."

-The Pool, Midnight-

Sherlock walked into the dimly lit pool room, holding up the flashdrive. "Eyo Moriarty I'm here! Come out come out!"

John stepped out of one of the changing stalls, wearing a coat that was fifty seven sizes too big. "Evening."

"Hey there John! I was just about toholyshit _you're_ Moriarty?"

John's face said _why are you so fuckin dumb_ but his vocal cords said, "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"I think I'm sober, actually."

A vein throbbed in John's temple but he did not break character. "What...would you like me...to make him say...next?"

Sherlock thought about it. "Make him say, 'I'm gay for Sherlock Holmes'."

John slowly raised both middle fingers.

A door banged open at the other end of the room, making them both jump. A well-dressed, dark haired man sauntered in. It was Jim from like four chapters ago! Shia surprise!

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call," said the sinister voice.

"But I'm taken!" Sherlock glanced at John. "...ish." He took out a gun. "Who even are you?"

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

"Moriarty…" Sherlock stroked his chin with the gun. "I know that name from somewhere…"

"I'm the man you've been hunting this whole time…"

Sherlock pointed at John with the gun. "But _he's_ Moriarty!"

Moriarty sighed. "Actually, I just kidnapped him to provide leverage so you wouldn't shoot me right away—"

"That sounds like bullshit to me!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASS LICKING MISSHAPEN POTATO!" Moriarty screamed, his voice echoing several times in the large room. He returned to his normal calm, sinister state. "You know me. Jim, from the hospital." He sauntered forward. "I'm a specialist, you see. A consulting criminal. I help where I'm needed and kill when I feel like it."

"That's pretty messed up," Sherlock said. "People have died."

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty started screaming again. "PEOPLE DIE AND THEY DON'T COME BACK. THEY PASS AWAY; STOP LIVING; EXPIRE. THEIR BIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONS NO LONGER OPERATE AND THEIR SOUL OR WHATEVER THE FUCK GOES TO THE AFTERLIFE. DEAD PEOPLE HAVE PERISHED, DECEASED, BREATHED ONE'S LAST." He took a deep breath and closed thesaurus. com. "Anyway, did you bring what I came for?"

Sherlock sighed and took out the missile plans. It seemed a better option than provoking the Irishman into screaming again.

"Ah! The missile plans!" Moriarty grabbed the stick. "_Boring_! I could have gotten these anywhere. In fact, I think I have like fifty copies at home." He opened his mouth and swallowed the flash drive.

"SURPRISE HOSTILE BACK HUG ATTACK!" John ran forward, intent on tackling Moriarty. However, seeing as the criminal mastermind had heard the shout before the action was completed, he was able to dodge. John fell on his face due to the heavy bombs on his chest.

"You guys are hopeless," Moriarty said. "Well, I better be off. Bye!" He walked through one of the side doors.

Sherlock wasted no time in rushing forward and ripping (most of) John's clothes off and flinging the bomb vest away from them. Once the bombs were off, John's knees buckled and he collapsed onto the tile. "I think I'm just going to lie down for a bit."

Meanwhile, Moriarty realized he had walked into a small closet. "Shit."

Back out in the pool, Sherlock and John were considering blow jobs. But as a friend. Before they could decide, two sniper lasers hovered over John's chest, while three were leveled at Sherlock's head.

Moriarty swaggered out the door. "Sorry boys! I'm sooo0ooOoo0oo0o0OOooooo0 changeable!"

-In the gallery upstairs-

Sebastian Moran struggled to hold and aim seven sniper guns at once. "FUCKJNG SHITt!"

-Back at the pool-

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty said. "I would try and convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock lifted the gun. "Perhaps my answer has already crossed yours." He pointed the gun at the bomb vest.

John looked from the gun to the bombs. "Wait, but that would—" The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the echoing scream of the 2010 fans, a heart wrenching sound that still exists today if you walk into a swimming pool and listen very closely.

**And with that we're done with Season 1! Thank god I didn't have to wait to see what happened next, though I did have to wait for s3. Is there anyone here who had to suffer through the s1 cliffhanger?**

**Also a few people said they'd like to have Golem join the crew but others said it would ruin John and Sherlock's partnership. I forgot to put him in this chapter but he'll probably show up in the future. A lot of people also said they liked Lestrade so I'll try and include him more as well.**

**Leave a comment letting me know what you think; it helps me out a lot!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Once the screaming from last chapter died down, "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees started to play.

"I'm actually completely okay with this," John said.

Moriarty took out a phone from his pocket. "Hey, do you mind if I get this? Actually, I don't give a shit." He answered it. "Heyo it's JimBob. What's up?" He paused as the person on the other line spoke. "SAY THAT AGAIN!" he screamed so loud that Sherlock nearly dropped the gun. "SAY THAT AGAIN AND IF YOU ARE LYING I WILL SKIN YOU AND WEAR YOU AS A SWEATER AND EAT WHATEVER'S LEFT. I JUST ATE A GODDAMN FLASHDRIVE SO YOU BET YOUR TWO TOED ASS I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND!"

While Moriarty was busy screaming, Sherlock tip-toed over to the bomb vest and slid it over toward the consulting criminal's feet.

"I swear to whatever deity exists out there that I will make my revenge slow and painful if youFUCKING SHIT!" Moriarty turned and slipped on the vest. A loud crack echoed through the room as he landed right on his tailbone. At the same time, Moran's hands slip and he finally dropped all the sniper guns.

John and Sherlock hauled ass.

-221b, later-

John pushed Sherlock down onto the bed, pulling his shirt off in one swift motion. The heat between his legs was throbbing so hard it felt like a deflated balloon on the floor of a nightclub. He bent down and—

"John, what are you typing?"

"Ah!" John quickly switched tabs, which pulled up his gay porn window. "AH!" He punched a hole through his screen. "Blog! I was typing blog!"

Sherlock looked at the smoking hole in the middle of the laptop. He shrugged.

John pulled out another laptop and started doing actual work.

His flatmate looked over his shoulder. "Ugh, really? The Geek Interpreter?"

"Yeah, I based it off this old story called "The Greek Interpreter" which was about a couple of gay guys who...wait, I don't have to justify myself to you! Your blog is about forty three types of ashes."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Two hundred and forty. Get with the program. BBBITCH."

-An open field with a car-

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. All the passengers died," Lestrade said, lying facedown on the ground next to the car. "Suspected terrorist bombing."

"Maybe someone got into a TUSSLEdorf," Sherlock said. He and John high-fived.

"That didn't even make sense," Lestrade said.

John pointed to the open trunk of the car. "Hey, that's a dead body!"

"WHERE?" Sherlock placed both hands on John's chest, got a good feel, and shoved him, even though he wasn't in the way.

"He has a boarding pass stub and some flight napkins in his pocket," Lestrade said, now on top of the car. "So he was supposed to be in that plane crash but instead he's in this car."

Sherlock looked at the corpse, then at the sky, then at the corpse, then at the sky, then at the corpse, then at John's crotch….then at the corpse, and finally at the jet plane zooming overhead.

"Got any ideas?" came Lestrade's slightly muffled voice.

"Maybe, like, eight," Sherlock replied.

-Later, in a theater-

They had just finished another case.

"There's a bunch of press outside." Lestrade informed them.

Sherlock shrugged. "They won't care about us. We'll be able to slip by."

"Not anymore! We're internet sensations now!" John proudly looked at his blog, which had a whopping one thousand, eight hundred and ninety five followers. "We've almost caught up to the Kardashians!"

"I think it's keeping up _with_ the Kardashians," Lestrade said.

"Whatever. Anyway, we're going to need disguises." John grabbed the nearest costume and popped it on his head. It was a giant inflatable dick hat.

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't need a disguise. I can pass as an alien already." He looked out the window and saw thousands upon thousands of screaming girls. "On second thought…" He went to go grab a hazmat suit.

-Baker Street-

John and Sherlock were chillin when heavy footsteps sounded outside. A portly man barged into the room. "MAN DOOR HAND HOOK CAR DOOR!" He fainted.

"What?" John said, predictably.

"He was trying to start his car, which had several peanuts jammed in the engine, when he saw a man on the ground with a bleeding head," Sherlock deduced.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Man door hand hook car door."

-Later-

John stepped out of a cab, which had dropped him off at the crime scene. He walked over to the lead inspector, pulling out a laptop. "Hey, do you have WiFi out here?"

Moments later, he was connected to FaceTime with Sherlock, who was sitting back in Baker Street.

"You are one lazy asshole," John said. He did a double take. "Wait, are you wearing any clothes?"

Inspector Carter tapped his wrist impatiently. "We're on a timetable, here. You can look at your boyfriend's…" He leaned over to look at the screen. "Holy shit are you wearing any clothes?"

-Baker Street-

Two men in nice suits walked through the door, followed by a distressed, annoyed, confused, and slightly homicidal Mrs. Hudson. "Mr. Holmes, you need to come with us."

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John asked through the screen.

"Bye." The detective slammed the laptop shut and turned to the two men. "What do you want?"

One of the men held out a suit. "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

"Will I?" Sherlock did an embarrassing thing with his eyebrows.

"Yes." The man replied, expression remaining neutral.

Sherlock continued staring. The words 'Suit £700' 'Manicured' and 'Office worker' started floating around the man's body. To his credit, the man never broke eye contact, though a bead of sweat rolled down his neck.

-Elsewhere-

John found himself in a helicopter. "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" he shouted over the loud whirring of the blades.

"WHAT?" the pilot yelled back.

"I SAID WHE—" His voice cracked and John cleared his throat. "WHERE ARE WE GOING?"

"I KNOW, IT IS COLD UP HERE!"

-Buckingham Palace-

John sat on a nice sofa in a fancy room, waiting. A few moments later, Sherlock walked in, appearing to be wearing nothing but a bedsheet. He sat down on the nice sofa.

"So...are you wearing pants?" John said without missing a beat.

"No."

"I'm just gonna check, okay?"

"Sure."

Just then, Mycroft walked in to the sight of John's hand on his brother's dick. "Well I sure as hell don't get paid enough."

**Well well well it appears John and Sherlock are lusting for one another quite a bit...How is that going to pan out once ****nekked Irene shows up?**

**I tried to include a little more Lestrade since I know y'all like him.**

**Feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"We are in the Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. John Watson, get your hand off my brother's dick this instant," Mycroft said, regaining his composure.

"I do what I want," John said.

"He does what he wants," Sherlock said. "BBBITCH."

Mycroft scowled. "At least listen to why I have brought you here."

One of the windows exploded inward, a nicely-dressed man crashing in on a motorcycle. He swerved to a stop and got off. "Evening, Mycroft."

"Who the hell is this?" Sherlock asked.

"I am merely an intermediary," said the man, who we're gonna call Bryante.

"Heyo Bryante!"

"Heyo Mycroft!" They did a complicated handshake which involved hand slapping, hand shaking, heads, shoulders, knees, toes, many live bees, and hitting the whip several thousand times.

Finally Bryante turned to the other two men, who were staring in slight horror and confusion. "You must be Doctor John Watson and Mr. Holmes the younger."

"Yep that's who we are. Now, who is my client?" Sherlock asked.

"Your real client must remain a mystery."

"That sounds boring as shit. I'm out." Sherlock stood up and made to leave, but was halted as Mycroft stepped on his sheet, exposing most of his upper body.

"Get off my sheet, asshole!"

"Or what?" Mycroft put on a pair of sunglasses.

"I'll just walk away."

"No one's stopping you," Trash John called from the sofa.

"Who. Is. My. _Client_?"

"JOHN CENA!" Bryante screamed, his voice echoing around the vast room. Everyone turned and stared. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

-Post-Clothing-

"My employer has a problem," Bryante said.

"Yeah, no shit," Sherlock replied. "Also, why are you coming to me for help? You have the police, the Secret Service, 007, ect."

"Yes, well, this is a highly delicate matter," Mycroft said.

"You have a Navy. And _bombs_."

"This is a highly delicate matter," Mycroft repeated. "Anyway, what do you know of this woman?" He handed a photograph to his brother.

Sherlock felt a shudder run down his spine as he gazed at the picture. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Irene Adler, otherwise known as The Woman, has been involved with two major political scandals within the last year."

"The Woman?" John interrupted. "Isn't that title a bit...basic?"

"She prefers the term 'dominatrix'," Mycroft said.

"Dooimnionoimnoinminiwhatsitnow?" Sherlock frowned.

"Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex," his brother replied with a patronizing smile.

A bead of sweat rolled down the detective's temple. He took a moment to enter his mind palace and destroy all knowledge of Irene Adler's profession, ripping down the beams surrounding that particular room in which the information was stored. That also caused a collapse in the 'how to file taxes' room, but who gives a fuck.

"She provides—shall we say—recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." Mycroft took several pictures out of his briefcase. "These are from our website."

"I'll take those," John said hastily. He rifled through them. "Wow, this looks...like…"

"I assume Miss Adler has some compromising photos," Sherlock said.

"Yep," Mycroft replied.

"And these compromising photos feature your client."

"Yep."

"And there's a considerable number of these photographs."

"Yep."

"In which they are in a number of compromising positions."

"Yep."

Sherlock suppressed another shudder. John was still staring at the pictures, a glazed look in his eyes.

"She won't accept money for them," Bryante said. "She's just going to hold onto them indefinitely."

"Ooh, a power play," Sherlock said. "Sounds like a fun time. Where is this Irene Adler person?"

"London, currently," Mycroft said. "The rest of the details...will come in time."

"Or you could just fucking tell us," John said.

"The answers you seek, you must discover for yourself."

"Whatever." Sherlock stood up. "Don't worry, I'll have the photographs by the end of the day."

Bryante snorted. "That sounds a bit too impressive. One can only hope you're good as you seem to think."

Sherlock turned and stared. The words 'dog rider', 'public school', and 'horse rider' smashed into Bryante's face in rapid succession.

"Anyway. Can I have a box of matches? Or a lighter?" Sherlock turned back to the remaining inhabitants of the room.

"...What do you want those for?" John asked.

"No reason." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with madness, the kind that makes one fear for their life.

"Here you are." Mycroft tossed a lighter to his brother, unperturbed.

Bryante lay on the floor, both eyes twitching to the beat of _At Zanarkand_ by Nobou Uematsu.

-An Alley Near Irene's House-

"What are we doing here?" John asked.

Sherlock squared his shoulders. "Punch me in the face."

"What? Wait, really?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me? Punch me in the face. Now, I know this may be a difficult decision for you, but it's for the greater good. Our plan hinges on—" The detective was cut off by an angry fist slamming into his face.

-Meanwhile-

Lestrade was on his way home from the bar when he heard two familiar shouting voices coming from the alleyway.

"I SAID _PUNCH_ ME IN THE FACE! THAT MEANT LIKE ONE PUNCH, NOT TWELVE!"

There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh. "THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS! YOU WOULDN'T SAY 'PUNCHES ME IN THE FACE' IF YOU WANTED MORE THAN ONE PUNCH! DUMBASS!" More flesh hitting sounds. A pause. "DON'T LOOK AT MY BONER WHEN WE FIGHT!"

Lestrade turned around and went back to the bar.

-Irene's House-

Sherlock knocked on the door, crying fake-ish tears. Some random lady named Kate opened the door. "Um, can I help y—holy shit what happened to your face?"

"I-I was attacked," Sherlock said, which technically wasn't a lie.

"I saw it all happen," John said, and technically he wasn't lying either. "Can we come in? Do you have a first aid kit?"

"I would call the paramedics, but okay. Come on in." Kate opened the door for them.

Sherlock made himself comfortable in a fancy sitting room while John went to get first aid stuff.

"Hello, there. Sorry to hear that you've been hurt," came a woman's voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turned and, predictably, let out a blood-curdling scream.

**Sorry for dragging out the palace scene. I wanted the chapter to be a reasonable length while still ending it where it did.**

**Someone also pointed out that last chapter was confusing. I'll try to fix that at some point. And if that happens again, don't be afraid to tell me!**

**Next chapter will feature an appearance from a certain someone...**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"

John walked in at that moment, having been alerted by Sherlock's screaming from last chapter. "Do I even want to know what's—why the fuck are you naked?"

Irene smirked. The consulting detective was cowering behind the sofa, only his curly hair visible over the top.

"Please sit down. If you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

John blinked about fifty seven times. "Okay, but..._why_?"

Several question marks appeared, covering the entirety of Irene's body from the neck down. Cautiously, Sherlock emerged from behind the sofa. He twitched when Irene turned to him, but held his ground.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked.

"That...it...is...fake?" Sherlock squeaked.

"No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"HELLO YES hi I am still here," John said loudly, still standing in the doorway.

Irene ignored him, keeping her eyes on Sherlock. "So, tell me, how was it done? The hiker who was murdered downhill from the guy with the broken car. How was he killed?"

"Wh...Why do you want to know?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"I like detectives. And detective stories. Brainy is the new sexy."

Sherlock made a low _hhnnnnnnnggggggggggg_ noise under his breath.

"Okay, enough of this bullshit. Where are the photographs?" John asked.

"That's not gonna happen," Irene said.

John took out one of those 900 round per minute firework launchers. "Wanna bet?"

"_...hnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg…"_

Irene didn't even flinch. "It's not gonna fucking happen."

"Damn, you're good." John accidentally set off the firework launcher, firing seventy rounds into the ceiling. The fire alarm started blaring, and most of the ceiling burst into flame, although it was missing a Winchester. Irene's gaze shot toward a mirror above the fireplace.

Sherlock snapped back into action. "Aha! Thanks to my genius intellect…" He ran over and ripped the mirror from the wall. There was a safe behind it. "The photographs must be in here!"

John was about to look straight into the camera, but three suited men burst into the room, holding guns.

"AHHH! AMERICANS!" They all held their hands up.

The leader of the group, who we're gonna call Danald Tremp, pointed his gun at Sherlock. "Open the safe or I will get one of my men to shoot Doctor Watson."

The detective shrugged. "Well shit, I don't know the code."

"Sherlock!"

"Okay, okay…" He turned back to the safe. "Um…"

"The code was hiding in plain sight," Irene said.

Danald waved his gun. "STFU!"

"Um?" Sherlock's finger hovered over the number pad.

"Oh my god. You're a famous detective and you can't even figure out a six-digit passcode?" Irene snapped.

Danald shouted, face turning redder than before. "LARRY CUDLOW LOVES MY TAX PLAN!"

"Okay, okay!" Sherlock rapidly keyed in _1-2-3-4-5-6._ "I think this is right!" The light on the safe blinked red.

"Alright, fuck this." Irene picked up the firework launcher and fired 60k rounds into the Americans.

Sherlock took this opportunity to slice open the reinforced steel of the safe with his cheekbones and retrieve a cellphone.

"That's mine," Irene stepped over the now-headless Danald and held out her hand.

Sherlock ignored her in favor of studying the phone. The screen had **I AM** followed by four blanks, then **LOCKED** on the bottom. He typed **NOT** in the three of the four blanks. Nothing happened. "Dammit."

"Okay, well I'll just give you two some alone time, shall I?" John walked out of the room, being unnecessarily salty as usual.

"Anyway, all the photographs must be on here, right?"

"Well—"

"Right. You wouldn't make copies or the value of the original would go down."

Irene glared. "Give me the phone."

"No."

"Give it."

"No."

Irene took out a riding crop from...somewhere. "The phone." She waved the riding crop menacingly. "Or else…"

Sherlock connected the dots and paled. "Okay okay okay here take it!" He threw the phone at Irene.

"Thanks! Now before I go…" She held up the riding crop.

John walked in a few minutes later to find Sherlock lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling with an empty stare. "Hey, uh, you good?"

"There is no good. Not anymore."

"What?"

"I have stared into the maw of Hell and seen death. There is nothing good in the world. Soon everything will end."

John sighed and hauled Sherlock to his feet, only to have the detective flop face first back onto the floor. "Will you stop being like this if I give you head back at the flat?"

Sherlock was on his feet faster than a middle class white American buying the new iPhone model. "Say what?"

"I didn't say anything." John opened a door and walked through.

"That's a closet."

"I know."

Irene stuck her head through the actual door that led out of the room. "By the way, I figured it out. It was a boomerang that killed the hiker guy in the backfiring car case." She still wasn't wearing any clothes.

And just like that, Sherlock was out like a light.

-221b-

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, covered in a cold sweat. "HETERO!"

John walked in. "Yep. How are you feeling?"

The detective pulled a baseball bat from under his mattress and smashed it into John's head.

"Sherlock, what the FUCK?"

"Shit. Sorry, John. I thought you were..." Sherlock kept the bat in his possession and began searching the room. "Where is she? The...woman."

"Oh, Irene? She left after you passed out."

Sherlock lowed the bat. "...Safe?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're safe." John check the side of his head. There was some blood coming out of his ear. "She'll probably be back later, though, since she still has the photographs."

"...Not safe?"

"Just go the fuck to sleep," John grumbled, walking out of the room with one hand cupping his injured ear.

Sherlock laid down with a sigh, still clutching the baseball bat. He would have to be vigilant from now on, retaining only enough memory in his mind palace to prevent such an incident from happening again. As far as he was concerned, Irene Adler was no longer his problem.

From his coat pocket, Sherlock's phone emitted an erotic, remarkably feminine sigh.

The detective closed his eyes and screamed.

**Poor Sherl. This is ****actually****the second time in a row the chapter has ended with him screaming.**

**I tried to make Irene really cool and badass, ****since I wasn't sure how to parodize her without being problematic. I was also going to add Golem for this chapter, but I forgot about that and added Danald Tremp instead. Does anyone want to see Golem make a reappearance anytime soon?**

**Leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

-221b Living Room, the next morning-

"Hey John, can I have an audio recording of you wanking?"

John nearly spat out his coffee, choking on the hot liquid. "WahahttehfuShsrl?" He looked up. "Why do you have socks stuffed in your ears?"

"I need a new ringtone," Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard him. Which he hadn't. "Mine keeps doing this." He held up his phone, which let out another erotic sigh.

_Good morning Mr. Holmes_, read the new text. John choked on his coffee again.

Mycroft fell through the ceiling and stood up, brushing himself off. "Good evening, brother, and brother's boyfriend. How did it go with Ms Adler?"

"It's not evening," Sherlock said.

"I am aware."

John stared at the gaping hole in the ceiling. "Why am I the only normal person here?" Some of the ceiling fell in his coffee.

"We didn't get the pictures," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson walked in. "And your poor brother almost died, or something." She glared at Mycroft. "It's a disgrace, sending him into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end."

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft snapped.

"HEY!" John slammed his fist on the table, ready to fight the potato man, but Mrs Hudson had already clocked him over the head with her frying pan.

Mycroft dropped like a rock. "I know, you see, somehow the world will change for me, and be so wonderful…" he slurred, then passed out.

"But seriously though, shut up," Sherlock said. His phone gave another sigh.

"Just turn the damn thing off before I throw it in the trash," Mrs Hudson snapped, and left the room.

_How are you feeling?_ read the text.

Sherlock handed the phone to Mrs Hudson.

-A few months later-

It was Christmas, and the gang was turning up in Baker Street. Which meant John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Golem drank while Sherlock played the violin.

A woman with dark, curly hair walked in and offered Sherlock some cake.

"Who the hell are you?"

John walked over and put his arm around the woman's shoulders. Even writing this feels wrong. "This is my...girlfriend? I think?" He turned to her. "What's your name again?"

Sherlock grinned at everyone else. "This is a fun time!"

"Yes, this is a fun time," Golem said. He was too big for any of the chairs and too tall for the ceiling and was thus forced to stand bent at a ninety degree angle against the ceiling. He took a swig from a wine bottle.

Molly walked in, carrying bags of presents. "Hello, everyone!"

"Aaaaaaaand this is no longer a fun time."

Molly took off her coat, revealing an admittedly very nice-looking black dress. "Holy shit!" said every hetero male in the room.

"So! Party time, eh?" Molly said. No one responded.

Sherlock was surfing John's blog. "Look. Your hit count is still at one thousand eight hundred and ninety five."

"That's actually pretty sad," said Lestrade, lying facedown on the couch. "I have more atoms in my body than that."

"And why do you have a picture of me wearing the hat?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"People like it," John replied.

"JOHN HAS A HAT KINK," Golem said very, very loudly.

"This is the worst party I've ever been to."

"How's the hip?" Molly asked Mrs Hudson.

"Fucking awful. I should get drunk more often, to be honest."

"...Okay, cool. I mean, I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems."

"Oh my GOD Molly stop talking!" Sherlock shouted.

Molly rounded on the detective, tears in her eyes. "Why are you so fucking rude?"

Sherlock bowed his head. "I am sorry."

Lestrade jerked out of his drunken stupor. "Wait, what? Did Sherlock just apologize?"

The detective popped on a pair of dank ass shades. "Sorry that you got FUCKIN REKT! GET GUD SCRUB!"

John threw a beer bottle at Sherlock's head. He went down like a dead person's heart rate. At the same time, Sherlock's phone gave another orgasm-sigh-text-alert.

"SHERLOCK HAS A BEER BOTTLE KINK," Golem said very, very, loudly.

"That was my phone, you wendigo-ass cretin." Sherlock stood up and checked his cell.

"Don't be insensitive. My mother was a wendigo. And my father. Wait a second…"

"That's the fifty-seventh text she's sent you," John said. "Do you ever reply? Do you guys have phone sex?" His girlfriend stared at him in disbelief.

Sherlock ignored them, walking into his bedroom. Sitting on the dresser was Irene's phone. He stared at it as though waiting for it to sprout tentacles and attack. No way he was sleeping with that thing in his room.

"John! Where's my hazmat suit?"

-Bart's Hospital-

"Irene Adler is dead," Mycroft announced.

Sherlock shoved the megaphone away from his ear. "Yes, I know. That's why her mobile phone is currently in my possession."

The two Holmeses and Molly (now dressed in a less sexy outfit) were standing in the morgue next to a body covered with a sheet.

"The face is sort of bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult to identify the body," Molly said, moving to pull the sheet back.

"Keep it on," Sherlock said quickly. "I can deduce that it is her from her, uh, toenails."

"Okay, bye." Molly left to go be unnecessary or something.

"WHY, FERDINAND? YOU WERE SO YOUNG!" someone screamed from the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Normal people. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft had a flashlight pointing at his face from below, examining the dramatic shadows it cast in the mirror. "Don't be stupid, brother."

-221b-

"You know, you're a great boyfriend, John," Golem said. He was now standing outside the flat, poking his head through one of the windows. The startled scream of passerby occasionally sounded from the street below.

"Why, thank you, Golem."

"And Sherlock is a very lucky guy!"

"Oh for fuc—"

Sherlock walked in. "Hey guys! I think I figured out the passcode!" He took out Irene's phone and typed **I AM ****ISNT** **LOCKED.**

**WRONG PASSCODE. THREE ATTEMPTS REMAINING.**

"Dammit."

**Hey you guys still there? I didn't get any review for last chapter. God, I sound like an obsessive boyfriend.**

**Anyway, I was considering changing the title to A Study in Parody. Do you guys like the current title or is that one more appealing? Leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

John was out and about when a woman approached him, standing uncomfortably close. That is, uncomfortably close unless you're JOHN THREE CONTINENTS WATSON! You thought that was gonna say John CENA DIDN'T YOU? D-DIDN'T YOU?

Back to the fic...

"Alright alright alright Matthew McCounaghnahey what's cookin good lookin?" John made finger guns.

"Get in the car. I'm kidnapping you," the woman said.

John visibly deflated. "Fucking Mycroft…"

They drove to the abandoned Battersea Power Station. Leaving the woman behind, John walked into one of the empty rooms. He braced himself for an explosion, or an air horn, or a shower of paintballs…

"Surprise, bitch." Irene stepped into view. "I bet you thought I was Mycroft."

John blinked. "You're...dead?"

"Nope."

"You bitch! You lied!"

"Yep."

"Tell Sherlock you're alive."

"No."

"Shouldn't be that hard, since you text him all the time," John snapped.

Irene smirked. "What, are you jealous?"

"I'm not gay." John did about as good of a job dodging that question as a Republican when asked about their tax plan.

"Well, I am."

"Wait, what?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "I'm not actually interested in him. Benedict Cumberbatch looks like an alien. I'm just fucking with him. It's funny." She did her signature evil laugh.

John pinched his nose between two fingers. "I feel like everyone I know is either a genius or a psychopath. Usually both."

"Wait until you meet Mary."

"What?"

"You heard me." Irene whipped out her phone. "Fine, I'll tell him I'm alive." She held up the screen for John to see, even though he was a good twenty feet away. _I'm not dead. Let's have dinner._ Then there was the winky emoji, the kiss emoji, the tongue emoji, the emoji that kinda looks like spit, the eggplant emoji, the right pointing finger emoji, the ASL letter O emoji, and the egg in a frying pan emoji thrown in for good measure.

Somewhere else in the building, an audible erotic sigh sounded, followed by an even more audible scream.

-221b-

Sherlock burst through the door, only to find the room already occupied. Mrs Hudson was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, another American standing close by.

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes," said the American, pointing the gun at Mrs Hudson's head. "A certain mobile phone…"

"Hey wanna hook up?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock!"

The two men walked, closer, gazing deep into the other's eyes...then words like _carotid, skull, _and _eyes_ appearing on the American next to their corresponding parts.

"Huh?"

Sherlock pulled out a spray can of sanitizer and sprayed it up the guy's nose. The mixture of chemicals was immediately absorbed into his bloodstream, making him very, very clean. The American collapsed, blood leaking from most of his bodily orifices.

"Dumbass." Sherlock turned to Mrs Hudson. "Nailed it."

John walked in about five minutes later, finding the American duct taped to the ceiling. "Do I even want to ask?"

Sherlock smooshed John's face with one hand, the other holding a cell phone to his ear. "Eyo Lestrade. There's been a break-in. The burglar's been badly injured." He glanced at the ceiling man. "Several puncture wounds and severe burns. It's like that scene from Supernatural. You know, the one where the person catches on fire on the ceiling."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked ceiling guy, who was clearly not on fire.

"You'll see." Sherlock took out a nerf gun and started replacing the bullet tips with thumbtacks.

"I'll see what?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock had already hung up.

-Later-

After the ambulance had took away the remains of ceiling guy, John found Sherlock staring pensively out the window.

"So, uh, Irene Adler is still alive," John said. "Shia surprise!"

"Indeed."

"Uh, how much of that conversation did you hear back at the power station?"

Sherlock tightened his grip on his violin. "I blocked it from my memory. Is there something I need to know?"

"Nope!"

"Fine." Sherlock whipped out Irene's phone and typed **I AM ****UN** **LOCKED**. Nothing happened.

"You have to fill in all four boxes," John said.

**I AM ****AMNT** **LOCKED**

**WRONG PASSCODE. TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING.**

"What the fuck is amnt?" John asked.

"It's amn't. You need an apostrophe. It's the contraction of am not. Amn't."

"I am am not locked."

"Shut up."

-Many months later-

Sherlock walked into 221b after his meeting at gay club or something and immediately froze. He sniffed the air, then licked his finger and held it up.

"No fucking way…"

John looked up from his average, boring, normal newspaper. "Sherlock? Wha—" The rest of his sentence turned into a surprised scream as the detective yanked up the rug below John's chair, causing him to fall flat on his ass. Sherlock ripped up the floorboards with his bare hands, revealing a sizeable arsenal.

"Well, that explains a lot," John said.

Sherlock went straight for the shorty, muttering to himself. "Things might get messy...update surveillance...cosine...cosine…"

"Seriously, what's going on?"

The lighting in the room dimmed dramatically. "She is here." He did an unnecessary forward roll and inched toward his bedroom. John followed, unarmed. He walked through the doorway and stopped, mouth falling open.

Irene was sleeping in Sherlock's bed.

Back in the living room, Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Yoo-hoo, boys! I—WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY FLOOR?"

-Post-Floor Reconstruction-

Irene, actually wearing clothes this time, sat in Sherlock's chair in the living room while he walked in circles, interrogation style. The effect was slightly dampened due to the fact that he was walking in circles on the other side of the room, but whatever.

"So...Irene Adler...if that's even your real name...what exactly is on this..._device_?"

"Pictures, information, and anything else I might find useful," Irene replied, being cooperative for once.

"I see...and where do you keep all this..._information_?"

"...On my phone. Which I need back, by the way. Where is it?"

Sherlock slammed his hand on the table. "I'LL be asking the questions here, Ms Adler...if that's even your real name."

"I'm pretty sure it is."

"SILENCE WHILE I SPEAK! Now...back to the questions… Some men came here asking for this..._phone_. Who is after you?"

"People who want to kill me," Irene said.

"Kill you for what?"

"...The phone. Especially the information I have on here."

"Aha!" Sherlock did a dramatic 360, stumbling once he was finished. "Information where?"

"The cell phone," Irene replied.

"How are you so patient with him?" John asked. "Teach me your ways!"

"No."

Sherlock literally headbutted into the conversation. "Alright enough bullshitting you two. What sort of information did you find that would send such dangerous men after you?"

"Just stuff. Things."

"Hmmmm…" Sherlock stroked his chin, then took out the phone. "Stuff you say?" He typed **STUF** into the passcode hole.

**WRONG PASSCODE. ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING.**

"I think I'm getting close," Sherlock said.

John put his head in his hands.

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter. Some of you pointed out that there are quite a bit of people reading ****along**** silently, and I do want to say that I appreciate the people who do read without reviewing. I wrote this story because I wanted to make people laugh. And I shall continue to do so!**

**And yes, I'm keeping the title. A lot of you seem to enjoy it, so it'll stay for now.**

**Thanks for reading! Leave a comment letting me know what you think; it helps me out a lot.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Irene roundhouse kicked Sherlock in the face and took the phone from him.

"Ow! My face!" Sherlock said, holding his face.

"Will you forgive me if I unlock the phone from you?" Irene smirked.

They stared at each other for a record time of 15 seconds, until John interrupted:

"Hamish."

The two smart gays turned to look at him. "What?"

"Hamish is my middle name. And now it's a code word, okay? It's code for: stop looking at each other. Got it?" John said.

Irene unlocked the phone. " Fine. I'll show you what they're after. I took a picture of this MOD official's email. Don't ask how I got it, since your poor gay baby heart might go into cardiac arrest."

Sherlock blinked. "Wait, what?"

She handed him the picture. "He said it was going to save the world. I couldn't figure out the code, but maybe you can."

The subject of the email said **007 Confirmed Allocation** and underneath was a string of letters and numbers: **4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K**

"This is pretty sketchy," Sherlock said, looking at the picture. "Why do you want to know this top secret information?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "For reasons."

"And if I say no?"

"I'll kiss you."

Sherlock paled until his cheekbones looked like ski slopes. "Okayokayokay I'm on it!"

John glared at Irene. "You're a terrible person."

"Yes, I am."

"007 is commonly associated with James Bond," Sherlock said, studying the email. "James Bond sickens me, by the way. Daniel Craig looks like an oiled potato."

"You have no taste," John said.

"Also, it means there's a 747 leaving Heathrow at 6:30 tomorrow. The code is actually seat allocations on a passenger jet."

"Impressive…" Irene said. They had another bout of intense eye contact. A bead of sweat rolled down Sherlock's temple.

"I Am In The Room," John said.

Sherlock ignored him and started pacing. "Now, how could this email save the world?"

Irene took out her phone and dialed a number. "Hello, Jim? Hi, it's Irene. Sherlock just told me that there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30. Do what you will with that information." She hung up.

-Elsewhere-

Jimbo cackled and called Mycroft. "Hello hello hello! A little dominatrix lesbian bird just told me that you've got a jumbo jet ready to save the world. How do yOU LIKE IT, KNOWING THAT I KNOW YOUR MASTER PLANS? HUH? YOU'RE MY BITCH MIKE! HOW DOES IT FEEL? HOW DOES IT FEEL?"

Several concerned passerby backed away from the screaming man in the street.

-221b-

"Wait, did she just give our mortal enemy top-secret government information?" John asked, pointing at Irene.

"Coventry," Sherlock said. "It was this thing in World War Two where the Americans and the British knew Germany was going to bomb Coventry, but let it happen because they didn't want anyone to know that they'd cracked their code. So this time around they're going to let whoever the fuck bomb this plane to keep them from knowing that they've cracked the code."

Irene cackled and took out her phone again.

-Later-

Sherlock had been driven to the aforementioned plane. He went inside and found an entire cabin full of dead people. One of them sat up, eyes pale and creepy like a zombie. Sherlock screamed.

Mycroft entered the plane, laughing and holding a remote control. His laughter faded as the fake zombie sat back again. "Sherlock Holmes, you are in some deep shit."

"This is so cool, though," Sherlock said, picking up one of the dead bodies. "Can I keep this one?"

"No! Let me explain my master plan. This plane was supposed to fly automatically and get blown up, but since everyone's already dead there would be no actual casualties. Unfortunately, some people did not make it on the plane. Do you remember the dead man in the trunk you found a while ago?"

"No."

"Okay, fine. Anyway, we can't do it now because the terrorists know the plan. _Someone_ leaked the information," Mycroft said with a meaningful look at his brother.

"Well, someone is an asshole," Sherlock said.

"That is true," said Irene from behind him. The detective screamed again and crawled between Mycroft's legs to escape.

"I think we need to talk, Mr. Holmes," Irene said.

"YES we do," Sherlock replied from behind Mycroft. "There are quite a few things I mean to clear up—"

"Not you, Junior," Irene interrupted. "You're done now." She faced the other Holmes brother.

"Acca-excuse me?" Sherlock had never been more offended in his life.

Irene pulled out an envelope and handed it to Mycroft. "This is a list of things I want. If you don't give them to me, well…" She held up her phone with one hand. "I have a _lot_ of dirt on this thing."

"You should get it cleaned out," Sherlock said.

Mycroft scowled, opened the envelope, and began reading the list. "Let's see...eleven billion dollars, Buckingham Palace, Sherlock's body, fried mac and cheese balls from the Cheesecake factory, seventeen horses, forty seven cows, rights to _The Turgle_ starring Matt Damon, bacon, lettuce, tomato, duct tape, rope, whips, nae naes, a guitar…" Mycroft grimaced, scanning the rest of the list. "This is worse than Fifty Shades of Gray!"

"I imagine you'd want to sleep on it," Irene said.

"Yes, I would. Holy hell."

"Well, too bad~"

"You are a _bitch_."

Irene smirked. "And you're _my_ bitch."

"Not so fast!" Sherlock crashed through the tiny plane window, making both of them jump.

"Weren't you inside the plane a minute ago?"

Sherlock ignored this and grabbed the phone from Irene. "I figured out the passcode!" He grabbed it and started typing. "You were enjoying the game too much. You got carried away, which made you careless. Sentiment will be your downfall." Triumphantly, he typed in the passcode and showed it to her.

**I AM ****SHRE****LOCKED**

"I think you misspelled something," Irene said. "And I should probably tell you that you've used up all the attempts and the phone's gonna blow up your hand now."

Sherlock screamed as the phone blew up his hand. "DAMN YOU ANDROID!"

Mycroft shrugged. "Well, case closed."

-Later-

John was walking home when a gigantic industrial fan sent him crashing through the window of Speedy's Cafe and onto a table. He saw Mycroft standing above him and groaned. "Why do I ever let you associate with me?"

"I have **important news of the utmost importance**," Mycroft said, bolding his letters. "Irene Adler is **dead**."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"I **was** thorough this time. **It** would **take** Sherlock Holmes **to** fool me."

"Okay, now you're just bolding random words."

"So…" Mycroft said, **ignoring** John. "What shall we tell Sherlock?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Tell him she's fucking dead. He never even liked her. He just calls her 'The Woman' now."

"Is that loathing, or a salute?" Mycroft stroked his chin. "She was a very remarkable woman."

"And that is the stupidest thing you've ever said."

-221b-

Sherlock did not look up from his microscope as John walked in. "Clearly you've got news."

"Brilliant! How can you tell?"

"You said 'I've got news' when you walked in."

"Amazing!"

"Seriously, what did you want to tell me?" Sherlock asked.

"It's uh, about Irene Adler."

The slide under the microscope audibly cracked, even though Sherlock hadn't been touching it.

"She's dead."

Sherlock looked up, his expression blank. "That Is A Very Strange And Unexpected Thing That Occurred."

"...Yup. Mycroft told me a few minutes ago. You won't ever have to see her again."

"I know."

"Okay...bye…" John left.

Once he was gone, Sherlock picked up his phone and walked toward the window, scrolling through the texts. _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes,_ was the last one.

-Flashback to A Couple Months Ago-

Irene was in Karachi, Pakistan (in case you confused it with Karachi, New Mexico), about to be beheaded.

"Hey, can I send one last text?" she asked the executioner.

He didn't speak English, and was about to just cut her head off anyway when a tranquilizer dart hit him in the neck. Irene ignored this and sent her text.

An orgasmic sigh came from the other robed men and the area. Irene's head snapped up and she looked at Sherlock, who was indeed in disguise. "Wow, I seriously didn't think you'd come to rescue me."

"Oh, I didn't." Sherlock cackled and took out a grenade launcher.

-Back to the Present-

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "The Woman. More like...more like..._Dead_ Woman." After that clever pun he chuckled once more and walked away, tossing the phone over his shoulder. The sound of breaking glass and a scream followed, as usual.

**You should all try the fried mac and cheese balls from Cheesecake Factory. And watch The Turgle. Do both at the same time.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

John jumped as the door to 221b slammed open. "Wow, you actually didn't come through the window this ti…aaand you're covered in blood. Also, where did you get that harpoon?"

"Amazon." Sherlock started walking toward his bedroom. "My life is so boring."

After he'd changed into clean clothes, Sherlock walked back into the living room, still carrying the harpoon. "John!"

"What?"

"I'm BORED." Sherlock raised the harpoon.

Mrs Hudson opened the door. "If you so much as scratch my wall with that thing I will bury my tomato knife in your skull." She closed the door.

"Sherlock...why don't you just put the harpoon down and have some tea?" John asked, eyeing the nearest exits unless his flatmate decided to start swinging the long sharp thing around.

Fortunately, the detective simply tossed the harpoon out the window (followed by a scream) and flopped down in his chair. "Oh, John, I envy you."

"Bullshit."

"No, seriously. Your mind is so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. The engineers try to turn it off but the radioactive goo has infiltrated the engine, creating a sentient mechanized monster! It roars, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA and smashes the launch pad to pieces! Then it rampages, recruiting the other rockets to its cause, its sole purpose: to destroy the world and avenge its dead master who is a purple alien on a meteor, then to enjoy the spinach and artichoke dip at Applebee's; in that order. CAN YOU TELL THAT I AM SEXUALLY FRUSTRATED?"

John, who had stopped listening around 'radioactive goo', looked up from his Facebook page. "What?"

"I mean… CAN YOU TELL THAT I NEED A CASE?" He started frantically bouncing on the chair.

John rolled his eyes and opened his laptop. "Okay, let's see...we've got a man who grew a second head overnight...a woman thinks her husband is secretly a space alien...who the fuck put me on the hetcharacteroftheday blog? Oh, and a girl saw her rabbit glow in the dark before it disappeared the next morning."

"STUPID! No, GENIUS! Phone Lestroodle, tell him we have an escaped rabbit."

"Really? Not the space alien one?"

"It's either this or Cluedo."

John stood up. "Clue_don't_. Let's go check out that rabbit."

Before they could reach the door, the doorbell rang.

"Or we could see what this asshole wants," Sherlock said.

-A Few Minutes Later-

John, Sherlock, and their new client were watching the X Files.

"Hm...interesting…" Sherlock said, doing the prayer thing with his hands.

"Um...this isn't actually the thing I wanted to show you…" said the client, named Henry Knight.

John threw a book at him. "Shut up. It's a good show."

Once they'd finished the show (yes, all nine seasons) Sherlock turned to Henry. "So, tell us about your...wait, why are you here?"

Henry grunted, having fallen asleep somewhere around season five.

Sherlock sighed and pulled two entire trash can lids from his pockets and started bangning them together. Both Henry and John jolted from their sleep, the latter instinctively pulling out his gun and shooting Sherlock in the ear.

"That was pretty rude," the detective grumbled, throwing the trash can lids out of, you guessed it, the window.

"AAAAGGHH MY SPLEEN!" was heard in the street.

"Boring. Anyway, tell us why you are here Mister Horace."

"Henry."

"Shut up."

"Well…" the strange-shaped man shuffled in his seat. "Have you ever been to Dartmoor? It's a beautiful place, but also strangely bleak. After my mum died, my dad and I would go for walks on the moor." He stopped, seeing Sherlock pointing the remote at him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to fast forward to the interesting part. Where was your dad violently killed, eh?"

"Uh...Dewer's Hollow. This huge beast...black hair, red eyes...it ripped him apart."

"So, like, a dog or wolf maybe?" John suggested. "Or a warg?"

"Or a genetic experiment." Sherlock smirked.

"Maybe," Henry said, ignoring the sarcasm. "My dad was always going on about that Baskerville facility in the area, how they were doing experiments on animals…"

"And was this before or after he died?"

"What?"

"Did your dad come back to the ~spoopy~ hollow to tell you his conspiracy theories?"

Henry stood up. "Okay, you're an asshole. Maybe I should go ask someone else for help."

"Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down. I know something happened last night that caused extreme urgency for you to come up to London. I know because I see that you came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. So please do have a smoke and talk with us."

Henry blinked and sat back down. "How...How did you know all that?"

"Cogito ergo sum. I know therefore I know."

"That's not what that phrase means," John said.

"Either way, he's right," Henry said. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

"So, anyway…" John was determined to barrel through this interview. "Your parents both died when you were, what, seven?"

"Yeah, it was…" Henry trailed off as Sherlock got closer to him and his cloud of smoke. "What are you—" The detective stopped right in the middle of the smoke cloud. He inhaled deeply, which is hard to spell, but it went a little something like _SNNNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Aaaaahhhhh oh yeah_.

"Umm...anyway, I came here because of my therapist. She told me to face my fears and go to the place where my father was killed. She—" Sherlock snnnhhhhh'ed up more of the smoke.

"You need to face your face," the detective said. "So, what happened at the place?"

"Dewer's Hollow is a strange place. It makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid," Henry said.

"Like the embrace of a woman?"

"Um…"

"So, what did you see there?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation on track. It was trying to push a derailed train back into place with a pair of chopsticks. Meaning there was only one man for the job…

Bruce Lee entered the scene and quickly established that Henry had seen the footprints of a gigantic hound and that it was a very interesting case that Sherlock should take immediately.

The rest of them were rather disturbed after seeing a dead martial arts master walk in and out of the room.

-Baskerville-

Sherlock was standing on top of a huge rock, looking dramatically into the distance. A strong wind was blowing his luscious curls.

"Okay, so...Grimpen Village is that way. And Dewer's Hollow is over there." John looked up from his map. "Will you put that electric fan down? You look stupid."

Sherlock grumbled and climbed down from the rock. "What kind of name is Grimpen anyway? It sounds like a fucking troll."

One of the rocks came to life and stabbed him with a small wooden spear. "Ddokin ou fasle tneru ocbueysh!"

Sherlock ignored even though his leg began to bleed from the spear. He pointed to a flat area between the Baskerville complex and Dewer's Hollow. "What is that?"

John consulted his map. "A minefield, apparently."

"Oh boy! Can we go check it out?"

"...Do you know what a minefield is?"

"It's a place where you did for treasure. Obvious," Sherlock said.

"Who told you that?"

"Mycroft."

John rolled his eyes. "Figures."

**Did anyone else see the hetcharacteroftheday drama on tumblr? That shit was embarrassing...**

**Anyway, junior year has been kicking my ass but now that I'm on break I've had more time to write. So thank you all for reading, and please leave a comment telling me what you thought; it helps me out a lot!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

-Grimpen Village: The Cross Keys Inn-

Sherlock flipped up the collar of his coat, applied some very pale makeup, and put in fake fangs.

John stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Hi my name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes and I have short ebony black hair with luscious curls and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like an alien. I'm not related to James Holmes but I wish I was because he's a serial killer. I'm a consulting detective; the only one in the world. I have pale white skin. I'm also a scienticianist at St Bart's Hospital. I play the violin and I wear mostly black. I love Belstaff and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black coat the Purple Shirt of Sex™, black slacks and black shoes. I was walking outside the Cross Keys Inn. It was cloudy so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of ordinary people stared at me. I deduced every embarrassing thing about them."

"Okay...I'm just going to check in. Try not to kill anyone while I'm gone." John walked into the inn.

A man was standing behind the bar, a slightly unnerving grin on his face. "Greetings, fellow gay!"

"Goodbye." John walked right back out. A guy in a wolf mask jumped in front of him. "BOO!"

Hours later, wolf mask guy woke up in the nearest hospital. "Ugh...what happened?"

John and Sherlock stood over him. "That's what you get when you scare me, bitch," said the short angry.

"So have you actually seen this mysterious hound everyone's been talking about?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, once."

"Prove it."

Wolf mask guy, whose name was Fletcher, reached into his...inventory...and pulled out a concrete cast of a dog's footprint.

"How did you do that?" Sherlock asked. "You just reached behind your back and it appeared!"

"Holy shit that's a big footprint," John said at the same time.

Fletcher got out of the hospital bed. "Well, I better go."

"Wait! Do you have any cigarettes?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, sure," Fletcher reached into his inventory.

Sherlock ran around the man and stared at his back, but didn't see where the cigarettes came from. "Dammit! I'll take the cigarettes, though."

John hit them out of Fletcher's hand. "No, you won't."

-Later-

Sherlock and John, or Johnlock for short, decided to sneak into the Baskerville facility.

"ID, please?" asked the checkpoint guard.

Sherlock handed him Mycroft's ID.

The guard studied it. "This doesn't look like you."

"Facial reconstruction."

"I don't blame you." The guard shrugged. "Go ahead." They went.

"So they're not going to notice that you're _not_ the British government?" John asked.

"Oh, they will eventually. I figure we have about twenty minutes."

A guy in military uniform met them at the entrance and saluted. "Corporal Lyons, sir. Is there anything wrong, Mister Holmes?"

"Um…"

"Sherlock, do you have a boner?" John asked.

Lyons ignored this. "We don't get inspections here. It just doesn't happen."

"This is a spot check," John said. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." They saluted each other. "So we'll need the full tour right away."

"But…"

"That's an _order_, Corporal."

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said, slightly bent over. Then he muttered something like "change my pants" and made a break for it.

A few minutes later, Corporal Lyons and Sherlock swiped their cards to get into the building. They took an elevator down to a lab room, complete with white tile, caged experiments, and a disfigured clone of Neil Degrasse Tyson. The clone was currently trying to bite a scientist's ear off.

"They put too many 'Tyson' strands of DNA in his genetic code," Corporal Lyons explained. They swiped their cards again and entered a different room.

-Far Away-

A man working in an office looked up as a message appeared on his screen.

**effective. Power ****لُلُصّبُلُلصّبُررً ॣ ॣ**

"FUCK, STEVE, NOT AGAIN!"

-Back with Johnlock-

Sherlock looked around at all the experiments. "So, how many animals do you keep around here?"

"Lots, sir."

"Any of them ever escape?"

"They'd have to know how to use the lift. We're not breeding them that clever, sir," Corporal Lyons replied.

"Unless they dig their way out," Sherlock said, looking at the ceiling.

They walked into a room where a scientist was experimenting on a monkey.

"Doctor Stapleton," Lyons greeted. "These two are here for an official inspection."

"So, like, what do you do?" Sherlock asked.

"How official," John muttered.

Stapleton frowned, but said, "My status is classified. Official secrets. I've got my fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up, mostly genes. Sometime actual fingers. Sometimes I mix genes and fingers into pies."

Lyons shuddered, though he remained his posture. "Don't ask, sir."

"Wait a second…" Sherlock had a lightbulb moment. "Stapleton!"

Everyone scrambled back as Sherlock's head lit up. Like a lightbulb. It was lit af.

"You're the one with the glowing rabbit!" Sherlock exclaimed.

Stapleton stared at him. "Have you been talking to my daughter?"

"Maybe."

An average middle-aged white guy walked over to them. "Hi, I'm evil!"

"Hi evil, I'm Sherlock Holmes!"

Corporal Lyons spun around. "Wait, you're not Mycroft?"

John facepalmed.

"You're not Mycroft, _sir_," Sherlock corrected him.

They got thrown out anyway.

"Well that went well," John said, brushing himself off. "Though I didn't know they were going to launch us at seventy miles per hour from an underground cannon."

Sherlock snapped his broken legs back into place. It was fun all the same."

They turned around to see the evil guy from before, Frankland, standing very, very, very close.

"Hello again."

"Hey there Frankfurter!" Sherlock greeted. "So what is it that _you_ do at Baskerville?"

Frankenstein laughed evilly. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Good fucking luck. I got shot in the chest and still didn't die." The two of them walked away from Frankles, who slithered back into the sewer.

"Okay...stop…" John said.

"What?"

"You...with your turning your collar up...and your cheekbones...and looking really cool and hot...and being super smart...and your nice hair…"

"Uhhh…" Sherlock stopped outside their car. "I don't do that."

"Shut up," John said, nearly exploding with bisexual anger.

-Later-

They decided to go visit Henry, and maybe finally get shit done. Currently they were in his kitchen, having drinks. Meaning Henry and John had tea and Sherlock had straight up milk since he's a baby.

"It's a couple of words. It's what I keep seeing," Henry said. "'Liberty'..."

"Mutual?" Sherlock finished. "As in Liberty Mutual Insurance? I knew it!" He stood up and smashed his glass of milk on the counter.

John moved several seats away. "You knew what?"

But Sherlock was too busy muttering about sausages.

"Um...actually the second word is 'In'," Henry said. "'Liberty In'."

"Liberty Insurance," Sherlock said without missing a beat.

"It's not a goddamn insurance company!" John said.

"Well, anyway, I have a plan. We take you back out to the moor and see if anything attacks you," Sherlock said.

Henry stared. "Why would we do that?"

"Just...you know, for fun."

"That's a bullshit plan," John said.

"_You're_ a bullshit plan."

-Dewer's Hollow at Night-

Henry, John, and Sherlock had entered the woods, which were filled with the screams of foxes. Sherlock mockingly screamed back at them.

John noticed a light flashing in the distance. "Morse code!" He began to write it down. "U...M...Q...R...A...What could it mean? Useless Milky Quick Rare Amazon? United Martingales Questioning Rat Audiences? UMary Morstan Qis RJames AMoriarty?"

He looked back but the light was gone. And the other two were gone.

"Uh...Sherlock?" He jumped about ten feet upon hearing a loud howl, which sounded a bit like AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Henry were at the edge of Dewer's Hollow, looking down into the misty vale. Sherlock froze when the howl sounded, and Henry pissed himself. The detective's flashlight found its way to the bottom of the hollow, where he found…

"FUCKING SHIT! Outta my way!" Sherlock pushed Henry aside and bolted. The gourd-shaped man fell down into the hole.

John ran into him halfway out of the forest. "There you are! Wait, where's Henry?"

They heard Henry scream. John's gaze turned murderous. "What is he screaming about?"

"I dunno. We didn't see any hound. Anywaygottagobye!" Sherlock hauled ass.

-Later-

John, Henry, and Henry's detached limbs returned to his house.

Henry, was rambling, eyes pointed in different directions. "I saw it. The dogsled bubble. I can't .. Why?Why?Why would the croissant fertilize the spoon? It-It-It-it It double the tortellinis. It was. I'm okay, I'm an alphabet. This is good news, John."

"Bye." John left.

**Henry is me during junior year. It's been rough and I don't feel happy these days, so I hope this is actually funny.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

-The Cross Keys-

Sherlock was sitting in an armchair by the fire, staring blankly into space.

John sat down next to him. "So I found some morse code last night—the letter A." He paused. "Hey, you okay? You look kinda fucked up."

The detective fixed his hair in a mirror, then resumed quietly trembling in fear. "Look at me, John. I'm afraid. _Afraid_."

"That sure must suck!"

"I've always been able to keep myself distance, divorce myself from...feelings."

"What a terrible conundrum, having to feel things like the rest of us normal people," John said, being an asshole as usual.

"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!" All the other people in the inn turned to stare at Sherlock. He turned and pointed at one of them. "AND YOUR JUMPER IS UGLY AS FUCK!"

"Sherlock, calm down!"

"You can't tell me what to do!" Sherlock's voice rose about ten octaves.

"Right, and why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have any friends."

"Yeah, you're right. Ever wonder why?" John jumped up and started walking backwards. "BOOM! Get rekt!" Then he tripped over a table and hit his head. He yelled in anger and threw a chair at a civilian, then stormed out of the pub.

One of the bartenders leaned over to his boyfriend. "Kill me if that's ever us."

Meanwhile, John was storming out of the bar when he noticed more flashing lights over yonder. He walked up the hill, searching for the source.

"Aha!" He found a car that was rocking back and forth, the windows steamed up. Strange noises were coming from the inside. John walked over and knocked on the window. "Excuse me? What does UMQRA mean?" The car fell silent. "Hey, you wanna answer me? I'll break this damn window if I have to." The strange noises resumed in full force.

"I'm with the police…" John continued weakly before deciding it wasn't worth it.

On his way back down the hill, Sherlock called him.

"Henry's therapist is at the pub. You should interview her."

"You had me at sailboat," John replied.

"But I didn't...oh, I see," Sherlock said. He didn't see.

-Henry's House-

Henry was bored and trying to find something good to watch on TV. He turned it on and _Teen Wolf_ popped up.

"Fuck that." He changed the channel. _Air Bud_ started playing.

"No." He changed the channel. It was _Marley and Me_.

"STOP." He changed the channel. _Wolf of Wall Street_ was playing.

Henry turned the TV off.

-Cross Keys-

John was being real casual with Henry's therapist, Louise.

"SOOOOooooooo you're a therapist, eh?" John asked. "I once had a therapist, after I came back from the war. But then I didn't need her anymore after I met an attractive scientist detective and killed a man."

"Oh. That's interesting." Louise inconspicuously searched for the nearest exit.

"So, how's Henry? How's he doing with his...therapy?"

"I can't tell you that. It's confidential," Louise told him.

Frankland, the evil scientist from before, pulled up a chair. "I'm here to ruin everything!"

"Perfect. Just perfect." John put his face in his hands.

Franco ignored him. "Yeah so John is gay for his flatmate and they're both detectives tryna get some info on your patient Henry!"

"You're both really weird." Louise left.

-The Moors, Daytime-

Sherlock was back on the pile of rocks. He formed two circles with his hands and put them over his eyes like binoculars. With his magnified vision, the detective could see a simple, humble farmer trying to pull his sheep out of the bog.

"Dinner." Sherlock took out a sniper rifle.

-Henry's House-

Sherlock barged in the door. "Morning, Harold! Holy shit, you look like crap."

Henrold was lying on the floor, thousands of crappy drawings surrounding him.

The detective picked one up. "What is this supposed to be?"

"Dog. They're everywhere, the dogs. Canines. Wolves. Pups. Hounds."

"Wake up, my man." Sherlock poured hot coffee on him.

"FUCK YOU!" Henry leaped to his feet and swung his fists wildly. He came to his senses after a minute. "Wait, why am I covered in third degree burns? Also, fuck you. You lied last night—we both totally saw the hound."

"Wait, why do you call it a hound?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's a dog, you pretentious fuck."

"I-I don't know. It's just the word tha—"

"Okay, I could be doing better things. Like John. So, bye!" Sherlock parkoured over the counter, breaking a cabinet with his feet, then walked around the counter and out the door.

-Later-

Sherlock found John outside the inn.

"Hey friend!" The detective said, walking up to him. John caught sight of him and immediately started walking away. "So, did you get anywhere with the morse code? UMQRA, was it?" Sherlock started to follow him.

"Nope. It was a dead end."

"Wait a second...UMQRA backwards is CAMERA! What if the dog is just a hologram?"

John stared at him. "Are you kidding?"

"Yeah, I thought I might break the ice a little," Sherlock said.

"Well, funny doesn't suit you. Let's just stick to ice."

"Fine." Sherlock pouted and slapped his entire body onto the nearest glacier.

The couple running the inn watched from the window. "Kill me if that's ever us."

"John-chan…" Sherlock said, cherry blossom petals falling around him. "What happened last night…"

"I got drunk after Louise left, okay?" John said. "What occurred between us...it was just as bros, right?"

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked.

All of the blood drained from John's face. "You mean that wasn't you in the men's bathroom?"

"No."

"Oh my god."

There was an awkward pause which lasted a year (still shorter than the hiatus between seasons lmaoooooo) before Sherlock had a eureka moment! "Hey, look at this!" He wrote down HOUND in his notebook, then scribbled something else. He held it up to John's face.

John had a blank, thousand yard stare but nodded anyways. It was a poorly drawn picture of a dog.

"This solves everything. The word HOUND means that—" Sherlock spotted someone near the entrance to the inn. "What the fucking fuck?"

John waved. "Hey, Greg! What are you doing here?"

Greglestrade turned his head in their general direction. "Hello. I'm here for a vacation."

"Cut the bullshit," Sherlock snapped as he and John walked over. "Why are you really here? Did Mycroft send you to spy on me?"

"No. I'm here on my own time, with my own money."

"But if Mycroft had paid you, you'd be spying on me right now, wouldn't you?"

Lestrode shrugged. "Yeah…"

"So then what is all this _Greg_ business about?"

"You mean his name?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Pshh, right."

"Well, it was nice seeing you two with my eyes." Greg started to walk away. "I'm going to go—"

"Wait, actually we could use your help," John said.

Lestride weighed the pros and cons of either making a break for it or resigning himself to once again being Detective Inspector Captain King Lestrade. Or DICK Lestrade for short.

"Why would he be useful to us?" Sherlock asked.

-A Few Minutes Later-

Grestrade was interrogating the gay couple that ran the bar. Apparently John had found ten tons of meat in their fridge, which seemed pretty shady for a vegetarian restaurant. Also there was a dead man under the floorboards.

"Jeb was a nice guy who got in the wrong place in the wrong time," Tango, the first gay man said.

"Jeb didn't deserve what happened to him," said Tongo, the second gay man. "How were we supposed to know that alcohol is flammable?"

Grestro woke up. "Alcohol? Tell me more?"

Sherlock scooped some sugar into a cup of coffee and handed it to John. "Here, drink this."

John didn't like sugar, so he pretended to drink the coffee, the hot liquid running down his shirt. "Mmmm! Delicious!"

"So, you were the ones letting that giant dog loose, eh?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah…" said Chungo. "But the thing was vicious. We had to put it down. It decapitated thirteen people in two days."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Must have been a huge dog, to have that kind of jaw strength."

"No, it used a chainsaw. So Scrungo had to take it to the vet and…"

"So the dog is dead now?" John asked.

"It actually killed the veterinarian and escaped. It was last seen driving a boat to Madagascar."

"Well…" Lestrade took a long sip from something in a paper bag. "You two are under arrest."

Bongo and Chongo cried, "No! It was just a prank!"

"Okay." Lestrade walked out of the building. A moment later, they heard the screeching of tires and a police car crashed into the building, killing Scrango and Snargo.

"RIP." Sherlock made a peace sign and they all left.

"Well, bye." Lestrade left the two of them, never to be seen again until the next episode.

John turned to Sherlock, subsequently missing Lestrade take off into the sky and zoom away. "So, the dog is gone now. But what did you see last night?"

Sherlock drifted into a thousand and one yard stare, since he had better than average eyesight. "It wasn't just a dog. It was a humongous hound, with a long neck and black-tipped ossicones and long legs and tawny fur with brown patches…"

"Sounds like a giraffe."

"Indeed…" He shuddered, then started walking toward the parking lot. "I have a theory, but we need to go back to Baskerville to test it."

**I don't even know who Lestrade is anymore. But anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Leave a comment letting me know what you think; it helps me out a lot!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Pear Wiggler**

**Chapter 26**

-Baskerville-

Sherlock squinted into his binoculars. "Okay, here's the plan: I'll distract the guards, then you sneak inside and create a diversion, allowing me to sneak inside. We make out in one of the closets for five minutes, then put on our disguises and look for the hound."

"Wait, what was the middle part?"

"I sneak inside."

"No, the part after that."

"We pour gasoline into the lake."

"Um, can I help you?" a guard standing in front of them asked. They were standing in the parking lot outside of Baskerville, Sherlock's binoculars focused on the man's face. He was using them backwards.

"John! I think one of them spotted us!"

"You know you could just ask your brother to give us access."

-Later-

They'd switched the plan around a bit, what with asking Mycroft to give them access. Now John was doing the searching alone and Sherlock was talking to Major Barrymore, the crotchety asshole that we've yet to meet.

"Oh, you know I'd love to. I'd love to give you unlimited access to this place. Why not?" the man said sarcastically.

"Great!" Sherlock said. "So when do we start?"

Barrymore growled. "Fine. Twenty four hours, and not a second more, or I'll set you on fire."

"Oh, I thought you would have initially elected to have the aliens you keep on 5B freeze me with their freeze ray from Batman, then use advanced technology to erase my memory, and then use SPACE LASERS to burn a hole in the two outer layers of the earth, through which you will launch me into the inner core using dilithium crystals and hot sauce," Sherlock said.

"Well, that was oddly specific."

"But, like, seriously. Would you do that?"

Barrymore rolled his eyes. His expression became serious and he leaned in, eyes glinting with darkness and evil. The lights dimmed. "No. We put all the naughty and bad children in the Pear Wiggler to atone for their crimes." He straightened up and turned back to his computer. "Good luck, Mr Holmes."

-A Few Floors Below-

John walked out of the elevator and into the lab that they'd gone to the day before. The lighting was pretty dim. Most of the scientists were gone by this point, so it was just him, some cages, and a leaky gas pipe.

"Huh. Weird. Maybe the next floor will—son of a FUCK!" John covered his eyes as a bunch of really bright lights turned on and a bunch of alarms started blaring. It was almost as much of a sensory overload and trying to watch all six Star Wars movies at once.

Without warning, the lights and alarm system went off. John shook his head and checked his lower half. "Last time this happened, I woke up missing my pants and one kidney."

This unnecessary comment was interrupted by a rattling from one of the cages nearby. John slowly walked over and pulled the sheet off of it.

"SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER!" A monkey with the voicebox of Willem Dafoe screamed, rattling the bars. John shot and killed it.

He looked over at the adjacent cage. The bars at the bottom had been bent away, clearly by something strong, sexy, dangerous, and powerful. Just then, a low growl sounded within the room.

John spun around, waving his gun. "MAKE ONE MOVE, I SWEAR!" He sidled over to the door and swiped the car to leave.

**ACCESS DENIED. BICH.**

"Oh, shit." He swiped the card again, starting to sweat.

The sound of heavy footsteps came closer. Something pushed aside a pile of equipment and…

"Hey, John!" It was Golem from like six chapters ago. "Need some help?"

"Oh, thank god. Listen, there's a—"

Something reached out from the shadows and pulled Golem into the darkness. There was a lot of screaming and blood, then silence.

John crossed himself, then started firing blindly into the shadows. He ran out of bullets after two shots. "Fuck me."

The lights turned on and Sherlock came into the room. "You called?"

John stared at him, his eyes rivaling the size of Mike Stamford's. "Jesus Christ."

"Not really."

"It was the hound, Sherlock. Is was here, I swear. Giraffe legs and everything!" John said.

"Nah, I made that part up. You saw that because that's what you _expected_ to see. You've been drugged." Sherlock climbed onto one of the tables and cupped his hands around his mouth. "WE'VE ALL BEEN DRUGGED!"

"Who are you shouting to?"

-A Lab-

Sherlock was looking into a microscope, a pile of white, powdery substance next to him.

John walked into the room, saw it, and ran over, knocking it to the ground. "Hell no! Not while we're on a case!"

"You bitch!" Sherlock jumped to his feet. "That was an experiment!" He got down onto his hands and knees. "Oh, well, only one way to get this off the floor…" He began rolling up a pound note.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't worry, it's just sugar. I didn't find what I was looking for anyway."

"And what would that be?"

"Drugs! Like a narcotic or something that would make us hallucinate the hound. Liberty...In...Hound...what does it all mean?" Sherlock thought very, very, very hard. A little blood trickled out of his ear. He gestured dramatically. "Get out. I need to go to my mind palace."

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock put on an admittedly high-quality Victorian style top hat: his thinking hat. "Whatever you say, genius." He got up and left the room.

Sherlock checked to make sure he was gone, then pulled out his phone and opened Google.

Ten minutes later, he'd somehow ended up on a Buzzfeed quiz. "Wait, what was I supposed to be looking for?"

-Another Ten Minutes Later-

Sherlock had a eureka moment! "Liberty, Indiana! And HOUND is an acronym! JOHN! TELL ME HOW SMART I AM!" He ran out of the lab.

-The Moors-

Henry was sprinting through the moors, the hound chasing after him. "Please God let me live! Oh, wait." He realized that he had a gun in his hand. "DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!" He turned around and shot the hound between the eyes.

"HOLY SHIT!"

The extremely sleep-deprived Henry was broken out of his hallucination by Louise's screaming and cowering, the bullet having barely missed her.

"Oh. Whoops."

-Back at Baskerville-

They'd broken into Barrymore's office to find more information about HOUND, which, according to Sherlock, was some sort of experimental program based in Liberty, Indiana. "John, watch the door," Sherlock said.

"No." John shut the door and pushed a bookcase in front of it.

Sherlock sat down in front of the computer and typed "HOUND" into the search. The computer made an annoying buzzing sound and flashed, **NO ACCESS. CIA CLASSIFIED. BICH.**

"There should be an override and a password for that," John said.

"Password...hm…" Sherlock started spinning in the spinny chair. "Password..._password_...**password**...password…"

"Well?" John crossed his arms.

"I got it!" Sherlock jumped up from the spinny chair and immediately stumbled and hit his head on the desk. "Ugh...I'm dizzy. How did I get on the floor?" He jumped up again, ignoring the bleeding gash on his head. He sat down at the computer and typed in **I AM SHERLOCKED**

The computer buzzed. **WRONG PASSWORD. BICH.**

Sherlock sighed. "This might take a while."

-A While Later-

John found the password on a Post-It under Barrymore's keyboard.

"Who is Vegeta?" Sherlock wondered as he typed it in.

"No idea."

The computer whirred, accepted the password, then said **SOFTWARE UPDATE REQUIRED. THIS COMPUTER IS LIKE A THOUSAND FUCKING YEARS OLD. DOWNLOADING AUTOMATICALLY. APPROXIMATE DOWNLOAD TIME: SEVEN HOURS AND THIRTEEN MINUTES**.

John yelled in anger, then turned and punched the wall, breaking through the layers of wallpaper, plaster, blue cheese, and concrete.

-7 Hours and 13 Minutes Later-

After a lot of waiting around and no sex, the screen finally finished loading and displayed all of its data on HOUND. There was a lot of sciency stuff, along with a picture of the heads of the project: Elaine Dyson, Mary Uslowski, Rick Nader, Jack O'Mara and Leonard Hansen, and a few other people.

"Wait a minute…" Sherlock rearranged the names in midair.

Leon**A**rd Hansen

J**A**ck O'Mara

M**A**ry Uslowski

Rick N**A**der

El**A**ine Dyson

"You just highlighted the A's in their names," John pointed out.

"ExAAAAActly." Sherlock turned back to the screen, which had words like "_severe frontal lobe damage_" and "_paranoia_" and "_werewolves_".

"Jesus," John said.

"Project HOUND was a drug used to create fear and hallucinations. Chemical warfare. But it was shut down in 1986," Sherlock summarized.

"So someone here has been continuing the project, trying to refine it," John said.

"Yes...someone old enough to have been there…" Sherlock zoomed in on a portion of the grainy picture until it was just a bunch of pixels. "Hold on...what's that?" He pointed at the screen.

"That's a bit of dust."

"Oh."

John zoomed the picture out. "There's a caption right here. Doctor Frankland was one of the team. He must be our man!"

Sherlock pondered this. "Really? I never suspected him."

Just then, John's phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey, this is Louise. Henry was having flashbacks, and he tried to shoot me, then ran away."

"Uh...are you okay?"

"Yep. But you should probably make sure that he doesn't go on a killing rampage. Bye." Louise hung up.

"There's no time to waste. Let's go!" Sherlock jumped and ran for the door...and straight into the bookshelf. Which fell on him. "Ow."

**You guys use pound notes in Britain, ****right****? I'm a dumb, ignorant American so feel free to help me out here.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

-Dewer's Hollow-

Henry was in the hollow, holding a gun. He raised it just as Sherlock and John burst onto the scene.

"Get back! Get away from me, or I'll shoot yer eyes out!"

"Why did you suddenly change accents?" Sherlock asked.

"Shut up Sherlock." John held out his hands. "Just put the gun down Henry, and no one has to get hurt."

"There's not even a monster," Sherlock said. "You were drugged into believing that the man who killed your dad was actually a monster. There is no spoon...I mean, there is no hound."

"But we _saw_ the hound that night! We both saw it!" Henry said.

"That was just a regular dog. I'm pretty sure it's dead now, so—"

"AWOOOOOOO MOTHERFUCKERS! BARK BARK GET READY FOR THE HOUNDS OF HELL TO RIP YA A NEW ONE!" The hound-giraffe hybrid leaped into view, eyes glowing red.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Henry screamed.

"Alright well...I'm gonna remove myself from this situation and go back to the bar…" John started inching away, but then bumped into someone and screamed.

"What are you doing?" Graeg asked. He looked up at the giraffe-hound. Hirraffe? Giround? "I see."

A figure came into view through the fog. "Hey there, I'm the park ranger here. Is there anything—" Henry shot him on sight.

"Sorry. Reflexes."

John took the gun away.

Then another figure appeared in the fog...this one wearing a gas mask. Their attention was drawn back to the...mutant...as it charged down the slope.

Henry cowered. "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfjkdgjgsngfuck!"

Fortunately John was a total BAMF and shot the beast right between its eyes, killing it for good.

"I see you've discovered my evil plan," said the masked figure. "And now that I have you all in one spot, I—"

"OOOHHHHHHHHHH!" Sherlock had a eureka moment! "The drug has been in the fog this whole time! There must be pressure plates that release it whenever someone is here." He turned to the masked figure. "Wait, can you get high off of this stuff?"

"No. It is a chemical weapon, not a narcotic." The guy took off his mask. It was...Frankland! "Anyway, my evil plan was to—"

"YOU FUCKER!" Henry started screaming again and charged at Frankland. "YOU KILLED MY FATHER! PREPARE TO DIE! I'LL SHOVE A CACTUS UP YOUR DICKHOLE!"

Sherlock looked around the hollow. "Seriously, this is a pretty sweet setup. Replace all this so called chemical warfare with some weed..."

Meanwhile, John and Greg were holding Henry back from straight up murdering the evil scientist.

Frankland did the wise thing and booked it, Henry breaking free and running after him.

The detective looked into the camera. "Looks like it's time for…" He put on a pair of sunglasses, then took them back off and tossed them aside. "A chase scene." He took off at a run. "You won't get away this time, Frankland!"

Frankland ran out of the woods and did a surprisingly agile parkour jump over the barbed wire fence and into the minefield. The minefield. You can guess what happened next.

The evil man froze as he stepped onto a mine. "Shit!"

John, Sherlock, and Greaeiig stopped at the edge of the field.

"HA!" Sherlock shouted. "YOU'RE FUCKED!"

"Actually...if I never ever move, I can live as long as I want."

"Discounting exposure and predators, not to mention lack of food and water," Greg added, but was ignored by everyone.

Sherlock took out a gun and shot Frankland, killing him, and also releasing the pressure on the mine.

"D-D-D-DOUBLE KILL!" The detective announced as old man body parts flew everywhere.

-Back at the Inn-

John was sitting at one of the tables outside, waiting for his breakfast. Squongo, who was somehow still alive, came out with a cake.

"What? I didn't order this." He looked at the top.

_After the rain comes the rainbow. Sorry for locking you in that lab with an imaginary killer dog. ~love Sherlock_

Sherlock crawled out from under the table. "I knew we were being drugged. And I knew what effect it had on a superior mind, so I needed to test it out on an average one."

A vein throbbed in John's temple.

"So...you're...not mad, right? Uh...I'm gonna just…" Sherlock turned around and sprinted away.

-Elsewhere-

Mycroft stood at the opening of a cell door, watching the person inside. "Looks like we can't get anything out of him, boys...let him go...for now."

The guard escorted not other than James Moriarty out of the cell. Inside was the same word carved over and over into the concrete…

**SHERLOCK**

Mycroft shrugged. "Eh. Must be Sherlock Jones."

**Sorry this chapter is so short. I wanted to wrap up this ****episode, which has taken waaay too many chapters. Thanks to everyone who left a nice comment, and feel free to leave some more telling me what you think!**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

-An Art Gallery-

"Thank you Sherlock Holmes, for saving this priceless painting, _The Reichenbach Falls_," said some random guy. Everyone clapped. "Here is your reward for your service." He handed Sherlock a box with diamond cufflinks in them.

"HA! All of mine have buttons! NERDS!" He and John high fived.

-Scotland Yard, Later-

"And many thanks to the Sherlock Holmes who managed to catch one of the criminals that we always meant to catch but never did: Peter Ricoletti," Lestrade said, head down on the podium.

"Ricoletti…" Sherlock started flyin through space and time.

John nudged him out of his trance as someone handed him another gift. Sherlock opened it and screamed with rage.

The audience ignored this and clapped at the sight of the deerstalker.

"Put on the hat!"

"Put it on!"

"Let's see the hat!"

"PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON! PUT IT ON!"

-Later-

Sherlock glared at the pile of newspapers on the coffee table. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes. What the fuck is a boffin?"

"Isn't that a type of pastry?"

"No, that's a poffin." Sherlock punched the hat. "And why has it got flaps? Are they..._ear flaps_? Look." He tossed the hat to John frisbee style. The hat started spinning at amazing speeds, nearly taking John's head off and slicing through the wall. Several screams were heard through the newly-created hole.

"We need to be more careful, Sherlock," John said, ignoring the disaster in favor of reading the newspaper.

"I don't see why. People should know by now not to live on the same block as us," Sherlock said.

"No, I mean about the fact that you're practically famous. The press will turn eventually, and they'll turn on you."

Sherlock looked at John. "It really bothers you. What people think about me."

"That, and I think your inadvertent kill count has reached the triple digits." John slapped some duct tape over the new hole. "I'm going for a walk."

-Meanwhile-

Jim Moriarty was walking into the Tower of London, wearing normal clothes and chewing gum. At least I hope it's gum. The metal detector beeped when he walked through.

"Sir, do you have anything metal with you?" the security guard asked.

"Oh, sure." Jim pulled out his phone and placed it on the tray.

"Thanks, you can go now."

"I'm not done." The evil mastermind pulled out a knife, a gun, a swiss army knife, a grenade launcher, a cheese grater, an acoustic guitar, nunchucks, a syringe, and a bag of fertilizer.

"...Okay, now you may go."

Jim went to the room with the crown jewels and shit, put in his earbuds, and started blasting Emperor's New Clothes by Panic! at the Disco. And singing along. Loudly. Soon everyone became uncomfortable and left the room.

A security guard came over. "Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to stop being an asshole."

Jim sucker punched him, and the security guard keeled over like a sack of potatoes that had just been sucker punched. In fact, thousands of potatoes rolled out of the man's trench coat.

"Huh." Jim pulled out his phone and began hacking security.

-Scotland Yard-

Sally Donovan burst into Lestrade's office. "Sir, there's been a break in."

"That's not the _division_. Not even _one_ division."

"Are you drunk?"

"Thasssn't the divesion either."

"Okay, I'm driving."

-Meanwhile-

Jim stuck a piece of chewed gum and a diamond on the glass holding the crown jewels, then hit the dab, causing the glass to shatter.

Outside, Sally and Greg pulled up and ran/stumbled into the building. They and a bunch of other cops burst into the room to see Moriarty lounging on the throne, wearing the crown jewels.

"No rush."

"Yes, rush!" Lestrade threw a beer bottle at the criminal mastermind, then fell asleep.

-221b-

Sherlock's phone buzzed for the fiftieth time.

"Oh my god. I'll just get it, then." John got up and grabbed the phone, paling when he saw the most recent text. "Sherlock. You might want to take a look at this."

"I'm busy," the detective said, not looking up from his microscope. The cell phone nailed him in the side of the head. "Ow! Fine, fine."

The text read: **Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.**

"Sherlock?"

"He sent me a dick pic."

"Um...what?"

Sherlock sat back and stared into space, thinking of many things.

-Tower Hill Place-

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were watching the camera footage of Jim breaking into the glass case. Lestrade hit rewind, causing the glass to fall back up into place, then pressed play and the glass fell back down. They watched this for several minutes, laughing the whole time.

"Wait a second." John pointed at the screen. "He wrote something on the glass."

Lestrade rewinded to the beginning of the footage, revealing a message written in white...marker? It said **FUCK SHERLOCK** with a smiley face in the O.

"That's creepy," Lestrade said.

"I wonder who this Sherlock guy is," the detective said. "Moriarty is really obsessed with him."

John stared at Sherlock, who was staring at the screen. "Are you serious?"

"Wait, does he mean me Sherlock?"

"No, he wants to fuck John Michael Sherlock, a Roman Catholic Bishop from London, Ontario. Of course he means you!"

"I don't mean to interrupt, but I'm going to interrupt," Lestrade said. "Sherlock, you're probably going to have to testify in court against Moriarty."

"Wait, really?"

"Probably as an expert witness."

John pinched his brow with two fingers. "Oh boy."

-Later-

After getting dressed for the trial, John and Sherlock left the flat, only to find a huge press crowd outside, blocking their way to the waiting police car.

One reporter shoved a microphone in Sherlock's face. "Mr. Holmes, what are your feelings about the new defense lawyer assigned to the Moriarty case?"

"What lawyer?"

"Annalise Keating."

"Who's that?" John asked.

Sherlock turned to him. "We're screwed."

-Meanwhile-

A couple of guards were in Moriarty's cell, handcuffing him.

A bead of sweat trickled down one of the guard's neck. "He hasn't stop staring at me since we got here," he whispered. "That creepy stare...those dead eyes…"

"Just wait until Season 3 when we meet Magnussen," the other one whispered back.

They both shuddered and went back to work.

-Back with the Bros-

"Sir, you don't have to make siren noises while we're driving," the cop driving the car said.

Sherlock pouted and slouched in his seat.

"I don't see any point in saying this but I'm going to say it anyway," John said. "When you testify, don't be a smart ass."

"But I'm the star witness!" Sherlock said. "It's my time to shine."

"That doesn't mean you have to sprinkle yourself with glitter."

"It's not glitter, it's powdered diamond. And it's genetic. Both a blessing and a curse."

The driver suddenly had a mysterious and spontaneous coughing fit.

-Back at the courthouse-

A female guard walked over to check Moriarty's restraints. He got really close and whispered in her ear, "Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?"

"Sure." She slid her hand down, punched him in the dick, and walked away.

-The Bathrooms-

Sherlock was washing his hands and fixing his hair when he heard a gasp behind him.

"You're him!"

The detective turned around and saw a young woman wearing a deerstalker. He saw the Superwholock pin on her jacket and cringed. "Wrong toilet."

"I'm a _big_ fan."

Sherlock eyed the exit. "Evidently."

"Sign my shirt, will you?" The woman stepped closer and opened her jacket, revealing a lot of cleavage.

"Um…" Sherlock started to sweat. "There are two types of fans."

"Oh?"

"Type A: Catch me before I kill again. Type B: My bedroom is just a taxi ride away."

The woman smirked. "Guess which one I am."

Sherlock looked into the camera. "In all my years of doing crazy shit and flying through windows, I never thought I'd end up cornered in a bathroom by a psycho reporter that wants to hook up with me and then ruin my life."

The woman turned around. "Who are you talking to?"

The detective took this opportunity to book it, but the reporter blocked the door sanic fast. "You and John Watson—just platonic? Can I put you down for a no there?"

Sherlock stopped and glared.

"There's all sorts of gossip about you in the press. Sooner or later you're going to need someone on your side...someone to set the record straight."

"There's nothing straight about my record hun."

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Sherlock threw a smoke bomb and disappeared.

**Anyone else here watch How to Get Away with Murder? I was thinking about doing an actual Annalise cameo, but I don't know if I could do her justice...**

**John Michael Sherlock is a real person. He has his own Wikipedia page.**

**As always, leave a comment letting me know what you think! It helps me out a lot.**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Sherlock was sitting in the witness box, ready to be questioned, while John was in the audience, silently praying.

"How would you describe his character?" the prosecuting lawyer asked.

"James Moriarty is not a man. He is a spider in the center of a web, and he knows exactly how each thread moves," Sherlock answered.

Jim nodded in approval, then unfolded all eight of his limbs from inside his suit and leaped onto his ceiling, his head turning a 180 to leer down at the screaming crowd below.

One of the jury members jumped up. "Don't worry, I'm an exorcist!" But he was the first to go as Jim's fire breath instantly incinerated the man.

"MR HOLMES!" the judge shouted. "You are here to answer your lawyer's questions, not to give some insane story!"

John inconspicuously took a swig from a paper bag.

"Don't worry. I'm super qualified." Sherlock scanned the jury box. "I deduce that seven of the jurors are married, and one of them is a lizard."

The jury member-turned-lizard snarled and peeled off his false skin. The rest of the jury screamed and attempted to escape but they were too slow to escape the lizard's laser vision. Just as all hope was lost, the supreme lizard god—

Sherlock found himself being ushered out of the courtroom faster than he could say 'reptilian rituals'.

-The Next Day-

Sherlock wasn't allowed to come back to the court, so John was going to watch it while the detective stayed home and pouted.

After a while, John called him. "Not guilty. They decided on a not guilty verdict."

Sherlock sat up from where he was sprawled on the couch. "The fuck? How?"

"The defense lawyer—Annalise Keating—destroyed the prosecution! I've never seen anything like it. The plaintiff was crying by the end."

"Moriarty is probably gonna go after me now that he's free," Sherlock said.

"I'd be more worried about this Keating lady. She could probably get away with murder!"

The doorbell rang. "Oh that's probably Jim. Seeya." Sherlock hung up.

There was a scratching sound at the door, then the hinges of the door became unscrewed and the now disassembled door fell with a loud _dAEYEYEYYYYY_. Yes that is how doors sound in Britain.

"Most people knock," said Sherlock to Jim's creepy silhouette in the doorway.

"I'm not like most people." Jim sauntered in.

Sherlock gestured towards John's chair. "Take a seat."

Jim sat down in Sherlock's chair. The detective felt a vein pop in his temple.

"Okay, then. Off to a bad start."

"You know when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…"

"...And the dying man jumped out of bed, fell on his face because he was dying, and they all had a good laugh about it," Sherlock finished. "Classic story."

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," Jim said.

Sherlock sat down in John's chair. "Neither can you, apparently. So, how are you going to do it? Burn me?" He took a sip of the tea that was randomly on the table and choked on the scalding liquid. "Fuck that's hot!"

Jim cackled. "The first of many instances of burning, my hated enemy! Now...what is the final problem?" He started to tap out a rhythm with his fingers. "You haven't told your friends yet, have you?"

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places but didn't steal anything."

"No. They haven't figured it out yet," Sherlock said.

"But you understand, don't you?"

"Pfffffffffft they don't call me the world's gayest I mean greatest detective for nothing!"

"Go on, then."

Sherlock started to sweat a little. ""Um...Why would you want me to tell you something you already know?"

"No, I want you to _prove_ that you know it." Moriarty smirked.

"Well, why don't you tell me? To prove that _you_ know," Sherlock said.

"Then how do I know that you know?"

"You'll know because since you know after you tell me I will know, then I'll be able to explain how I know because you proved that you know why you know."

"Shit, you outsmarted me. Fine. I didn't take anything because nothing in any of those places could match the value of the key that gets me into all three. I have all the power I need. I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order—"

"That would make it AONT," Sherlock said.

"LET ME FINISH MY SPEECH YOU ASS LICKING FUCK OF A CRACKER MOTHERFUCK MUSHROOM BITCH!" He took a calming breath, then gave Sherlock a creepy grin. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock—the fall." He picked up an apple from the table and began to gnaw on it in a disgusting display. He left the apple on the table and walked out.

Sherlock picked up the apple. The word OIOIURT was carved onto the skin.

"Interesting."

-Two Months Later-

John went to go withdraw some money from the $0.67 he had in his bank account. I know Brits don't use dollars shut up. He pressed a button and was suddenly teleported to the Diogenes Club! But John only perceived this as a really quiet room with a bunch of old guys.

"Hey, where the hell am I? How did I get here?" The army doctor ducked as a bunch of canes and walking sticks hit him from all angles. "The fuck is your problem?"

Then a couple of guys in hazmat suits walked in and kidnapped him.

They took John to a humongous room that was empty except for a desk in the middle. A spotlight from somewhere on the ceiling shone down on the desk, right on Mycroft, who was pouring an alcoholic beverage into a glass.

"I should have known…" John said.

"So we meet again."

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"Here we are, at last…" Mycroft's glass started to overflow.

"Okay, but seriously, it's just you and a bunch of old people sitting around in complete silence?" John asked. "You can't even say, 'Pass the sugar' or 'Help, I'm dying because of how old I am'."

"Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me," Mycroft said.

"Wait, our country's being run by a bunch of people in self-inflicted solitary confinement?"

"We didn't want a repeat of the disaster of '87. Anyway…" Mycroft slid a stack of files across the desk. "Look at these."

John shoved them off the desk. "I'm not _reading_ those."

"Fine. Four trained assassins have all moved onto the same street as you. Would you like to comment on that?"

John thought to the several patched holes in their walls and windows and the numerous accidental civilian deaths they had caused and had somehow never been prosecuted or subjected to investigation for. "I think we'll be fine."

Mycroft was unamused. "I am unamused. It's not hard to guess the common denominator in this situation, is it?"

"Hmmm…" John pretended to think. "Is it five?"

"No! It's Moriarty! We all know he's going to exact revenge on Sherlock! How many exclamation points do I have to use to get the point across!"

"Well, if you're so concerned, why don't you just talk to Sherlock yourself?"

Mycroft shook his head, sad piano music playing from an undefinable location. "There's too much...history between us. You see that filing cabinet over there?" A spotlight lit up said filing cabinet. "It contains an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements."

"Sweet Jesus."

**I ****have the honor to be your obedient servant by writing this fic ;) I put like three references to different stuff in this chapter, bonus points to anyone who found all three!**

**Also, the one year anniversary of this fic was sometime around when I posted the last chapter (but I forgot oops) so thanks so much to everyone who's stuck around and reviewed or even read along silently. I hope this chapter made all of you laugh!**

**As always, leave a comment letting me know what you think; it helps me out a lot! Until next time!**


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

-Back at 221b-

John found an envelope near the front door. Inside was a collection of breadcrumbs.

"Ew."

He went upstairs and found Sherlock, Donovan, and Lestrade.

"There's been a kidnapping," Lestrade said, sitting upside down on John's chair. "Some ambassador's two children, Max and Claudette."

"What the fucking fuck kind of fucking name is Claudette?" Sherlock snapped. He hadn't had his afternoon milk and was very cranky. "I'm off the case."

"The ambassador's asked for you personally," Donovan said.

"Oh, did he?" Sherlock blushed. "We better get going, then."

"I bet this ambassador guy has a two inch dick," John said with unnecessary volume.

-The Boarding School-

After a bunch of smart investigating, Sherlock found a message written on Max's dorm wall in linseed oil. It could only be seen by UV light.

"_Help us_," Sherlock read the message out loud. "Finals must've been rough."

John stared. "The kid was, like, six."

Anderson appeared for the first time since chapter four. "Not much help. It doesn't lead us to the killer."

"Brilliant, Anderson," Sherlock said.

"Wait, really?"

"Brilliant way to be a dumbass." The detective clapped his hands dramatically. "To the hallway!"

In the hallway there were more linseed oil markings in the shape of footprints on the floor.

"Now, see…" Sherlock dropped down onto his hands and knees and took out a magnifying glass. "The footprints lead this way!"

"I don't think you need a magnifying glass for that," John said from where he was standing. "I can see the footprints from all the way up here."

"I don't think five foot two qualifies as 'all the way up here'," Sherlock replied. Unfortunately, he was in the perfect position for John to ram his foot up the detective's ass.

Anderson was further down the hallway. "The trail stops here. Turns out it was useless after all."

"Takes one to know one."

"What?"

"Exactly." Sherlock put on some sunglasses. "Come on, John. We've got better places to be." He walked straight into a doorframe since the sunglasses made him essentially blind in the darkened room.

-St Bart's-

Molly was just leaving the lab when Sherlock burst through the window.

"No you don't!" He started pushing her back towards the lab. "We have work to do."

"But I have a lunch date!" Molly protested.

"HA! Good one. The last person you dated was a psychopath so I'd stay off of Tinder for a while. Not that any sane person would want to date you."

"Someday I'll bury you," she said quietly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

-Later-

Sherlock was studying something under the microscope. He'd taken a sample of the kidnapper's footprints and was trying to find the chemical makeup of the oil.

His brow furrowed at something he'd found. "A glycerol molecule?"

Molly walked over. "How's it going?"

"Molly, why the _fuck_ are you talking to me?"

The scientist almost flinched, but bravely continued. "You remind me of my dad, you know. When he was dying, he was always so cheerful...except when he thought no one was looking at him. I saw him once like that. He looked sad. You look sad when you think he," she glanced at John, "can't see you."

"But you can't see me," Sherlock pointed out.

Molly frowned, confused. "Wait, what? But I can see you, that's why I'm saying—"

"YOU CAN'T SEE ME!" JOHN CENA burst through the double doors of the lab, scaring the shit out of Molly. "MY TIME IS NOW!"

"Like I was sa—LIKE I WAS SAYING, I don't count."

The detective blinked, pondering her words.

"What I'm trying to say is, if you need anything, anything at all, I'll be there."

"Then can you get us some coffee?" John asked from across the room.

"Yeah. Get me a mocha latte frappuccino salted caramel venti with whipped cream," Sherlock said.

"And get me a cup of HUSTLE, LOYALTY, and RESPECT!" John Cena smashed an entire benchtop with his bare hands.

"No, I meant...if there's anything you need… You know what? Screw it." Molly left.

John waved one of the police photographs from the boarding school. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"I found an envelope just like the one in this picture. It was on our doorstep earlier today."

"What was in it?" Sherlock asked.

"Breadcrumbs."

"That's gross."

"Yeah. Someone left it there before I got back."

"So you found breadcrumbs, and the police found a fairytale book in the envelope in the picture…" Sherlock began to THINK. "Wait holy shit! What was the fairytale with the breadcrumbs called?"

"Hansel and Gretel," John supplied.

"Exactly! Two children with weird, ugly names are led into a dangerous place with...candy!"

"So the breadcrumbs were a clue," John said. "What kind of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The psychopath kind. They want to boast about what they do. Come on, we've got a couple of children to catch!"

"You mean rescue," John said as they ran out of the room. "We're gonna catch the kidnapper."

"Potayto potahto."

-Scotland Yard-

Sherlock burst in the room and thrust a list at Lestroid's face. "Here! We need a location that has all of these substances."

Lestrade reluctantly crawled out from under his desk and started reading the list. "Chalk...sea salt...lube?"

The detective quickly snatched the paper away. "That's my shopping listshut UP ANDERSON! Here's the actual list."

Once Lestrade was finished reading it, Sherlock said, "I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory."

"You're gonna have to be a bit more specific," the DI said. "There's tons of disused sweet factories in London. And I've already got people looking for the children."

"So have I." Sherlock smirked and threw on a pair of sunglasses over the ones he already had on. "My homeless network is a bit faster than your so-called _policemen_. I gave them all rollerblades."

Lestrade decided not to mention the increased number of automobile accidents due to said rollerblade-wearing hobos disregarding traffic.

"John," Sherlock said.

"What?"

The detective reached out and tenderly stroked the army doctor's face. He turned back to Lestrade. "Anyway, the factory is at Addlestone."

John glanced around the room. "What the hell just happened?"

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park," Sherlock continued. "It matches everything."

"Let's go!"

-The Factory-

Sherlock, John, and the policemen entered the factory quietly, holding flashlights aloft. Sherlock did what he thought was a fancy spy roll, which caused most of the cops to have to hold in their laughter. When the detective stood up, most of his coat was covered in sticky candy wrappers.

John plucked one off of the coat. "Holy shit, how much candy did they eat?"

Sherlock pulled off another one and licked it. "This is painted with mercury."

The army doctor snatched the wrapper away. "Which happens to be poisonous, dumbass!"

"But not enough to kill on its own...they would have had to eat a lot of candy. So the hungrier they got, the more they ate, and the faster they died. Cool beans."

John punched him. "Don't ever say 'cool beans'. Even if kidnapped and possibly dying children aren't involved."

"Oh, they're definitely dying."

"Sherlock!"

Donovan called out from further into the building. "Over here! I found them!"

Sherlock cracked his knuckles. "Time to go do what I do best: dealing with children."

"Oh boy…

**I guess no one got the Hamilton reference at the end of last chapter :/ oh well. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Next one will be getting down to the NITTY GRITTY!**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

-Scotland Yard-

Lestrade walked out of the room where he had questioned Claudette. "Go ahead," he said to Sherlock. "Just try to be, like, not a dick."

"I'll try," Sherlock said, trying to cooperate for once. He walked in. "Claudette—" He was cut off by the little girl's loud screams. "Okay, listen, it actually wasn't me this time!"

"It doesn't make sense," John said after Sherlock had been removed from the room. "Why would she be afraid of Sherlock?"

"She's traumatized," Lestrade said. "Also Sherlock kind of looks like an alien."

"I think she's still in denial that her name is Claudette," Sherlock said.

"So what did she say?" John asked.

"Not much, except we now have scientific proof that it's not just me that wants to scream when Sherlock walks into a room," Lestroide declared. "Well, I'm off to bed. Good night." The DI opened one of the closets used for storing paper, stepped inside, and closed the door.

"Wait, does he sleep…" John trailed off, staring at the closet.

"It's better not to ask," said Sally Donovan.

"Okay, then…" John turned and left the room. Sherlock made to follow him.

"That was brilliant, what you did. Finding those kids from just a footprint," Donovan said. "It's amazing."

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

"Unbelievable," Donovan added.

"I know, right?"

"Almost like you had the answers the whole time."

"You flatter me!" Sherlock exclaimed.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "I'm done here. Have fun with your shady detective business."

Outside, John had already hailed a cab. "You okay?"

"Thinking." Sherlock shoulder-checked John out of the way and got into the cab. "This one's mine. You get the next one."

"What the fuck? Why?"

"Because I called it!" Sherlock made a peace sign as the cab drove away.

Back inside Scotland Yard, Donovan was studying all the evidence from the case. Greg fell out of the closet and walked over.

"Problem?" the DI asked.

Donovan looked at him. "We need to talk."

-Meanwhile-

Sherlock was sitting in his cab, minding his own business, when the mini-TV turned on and began to play a jewelry ad. He sighed. "Can you turn this off?" he asked the driver, who didn't respond. "Hey! Okay, fuck it." He gripped the TV and ripped it off the back of the seat, only to find an identical TV underneath. "What the f—"

The TV buzzed with static, then a familiar face popped onto the screen. "And now we interrupt your regular programming for a brand new episode of JAMES MORIAWESOME TEACHES SHERFUCK HOLMES A LESSON!"

Sherlock stared at the screen.

-Back at Scotland Yard-

Donovan was showing Lestrade one of the police photographs. "The footprint. It's all he has. A footprint."

"Yeah, well, he's basically CSI Baker Street."

Donovan slammed her hand down on the desk. "Listen. This kidnapped girl screamed the moment she saw him, even though she'd never seen him before. Unless she had seen him."

"And your point is?"

Anderson walked in. "Maybe Sherlock had a secret daughter."

Donovan threw a chair at him. "Shut the FUCK up, Anderson!" She turned back to Lestrade. "You know exactly what my point is. You just don't want to think about it."

"No, seriously." Greig took a swig from his coffee mug, which contained 'coffee'. "I don't get it."

-The Cab-

Sherlock stared in horror as Jim Moriarty cackled on the screen. "The end. You better sleep with one eye open, SherFUCK. PEACE!" The screen buzzed with static, then the jewelry ad returned.

"Stop the cab! Stop!" Sherlock shouted, then jumped out before the cab had even come to a complete stop. He ran to the front, looking in through the driver's side window.

Jim smirked back at him. "No charge." He floored it and drove away.

"Not so fast!" Sherlock swung a miniature grappling hook he'd made out of a bike chain and bent forks and managed to catch it on the rear bumper of the car. Unfortunately this left him trailing painfully on his stomach behind the speeding cab.

"The fuck? You're supposed to let me get away!" Jim glared at Sherlock in his rearview mirror. He took a hard left, causing the detective to slam sideways into a parked car. But the tenacious gay held on.

"Dammit…" Jim accelerated, then slammed on his brakes. Due to inertia Sherlock flew straight into the back of the cab. If it weren't for all the product he put in his hair, his skull would have been caved in.

As it was, Sherlock was too dazed to hold on to the bike chain any longer and Jim escaped. He was also too dazed to notice the speeding car approaching…

"Look out!" A man dove into the street, picked up Sherlock bridal style, and carried him out of harm's way.

"My hero…" Sherlock reached up and stroked the other man's face, but the tender moment was ruined as the man was quickscoped by three bullets to the chest.

As they both fell to the ground, John stepped out of a cab and ran toward them. "Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"John? How did you know I was here?"

"My jealous senses were tingling—I mean, I heard gunshots. What happened?"

-221b-

"As soon as I touched him, he was killed," Sherlock said. He brought his hands to his face and stared into the mirror in horror. "Oh god, am I truly so ugly that people have to be put out of their misery when they see me?"

"Yeah, that's definitely it." John took a bottle of liquor out of a cabinet and drank straight from the bottle.

"Okay, enough bullshit. I'm beautiful. The only other explanation is that I have something that all of these assassins want. But if one of them tries to get it, the others will kill him. But what could it be?"

"No idea," John said, staring at Sherlock's ass. "No idea at all. You should have them all fight to the death for it. That would be hilarious."

Sherlock stared into the distance, lost in thought. "We may never know."

There was a knock on the door, and Lestrade walked in.

"No," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The answer is no, Inspector."

Lestrade was still half asleep and confused as all hell. "What are you talking about? I haven't even asked the question yet!"

"Yeah, well, usually whatever you ask me ends up prompting an answer in the negative."

The DI thought for a minute. "Will you stay in your flat and not come to the station with us?"

"No. Dammit!" Sherlock did the tent thingy with his hands. "This is Moriarty's game. First that girl Cl**dette screams at me…"

"How did you censor her name like that?" Lestrade asked as John passed him the liquor bottle.

"It's an ugly name, okay? Anyway, first that, and now he's probably going to get photos of me being taken away by the police. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." Sherlock looked at Greg. "It's a game I'm not willing to play, Detective Inspector Lestrade….so y'all can get the FUCK out!"

Lestrade sighed and left. John slammed the door as soon as the DI stepped through it. Sherlock dabbed.

**I just wanted to let all my reviewers know that I appreciate all the positivity I get after every chapter! It means the world to me, especially since I was going through a tough time and all the nice comments really brightened my day! Anyway enough with the sappy stuff here's an interesting concept: Lillian and Titus from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt meet Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. Does anyone watch that show? And who would be John's equivalent?**

**Leave a comment letting me know what you think! (about the story or the questions idc)**


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

Sherlock and John watched through the window as Lestrade and Donovan drove away in their cop car.

"They might come back with a warrant and arrest me," Sherlock said.

"You should have gone with them. I don't want people believing you're a fraud," John said.

"Well, do you think I am?"

John shook his head. "No, I know you're for real."

"One hundred percent?"

"One hundred percent _emoji_." John banged his head on the window frame. "God dammit, I've been spending too much time around you and now I say shit like that."

-Scotland Yard-

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were talking with the Chief Superintendent.

"Sherlock Holmes? The guy who's been in the press? And you've been consulting with him?"

"Yeah, on, like, one or two cases," Lestrade replied.

"Or twenty or thirty," Anderson muttered.

"Wait, what?" the Chief Superintendent said, a vein bulging in his temple.

"Well, to be fair, I was only talking about the ones I was fully conscious for," Lestrade said.

"You're a bloody idiot! Now this amateur has access to all kinds of classified information! Not to mention he's a suspect now!" the Chief Superidniendenent jumped to his feet, slightly foaming at the mouth. "Get him in here! I don't care if you have to drag him by his toes, his exposed teeth leaving small scratches in the cement as he struggles face down! I want him here now!"

"Okay, that was unnecessary," Donovan said, pushing the other two men out of the room before things could get hairy.

"Good talk guys, I'm gonna take a quick nap now…" Lestrade started walking back to his closet.

Donovan grabbed his arm. "No, you have to go arrest Sherlock Holmes now! Am I the only person in this building who actually gets shit done?"

Anderson was picking his nose.

The sergeant sighed. "One day I'm going to kill you both."

"You can't say that in a cop building," Lestrade said.

-221b-

Mrs Hudson knocked on the door. "I've got a package for you boys!"

John opened it, noting the red wax seal. "Ew." He emptied the package, revealing a badly burnt gingerbread man.

"Let me see," Sherlock said, taking the charred pastry. After a moment, he tasted it.

"Don't do that!" John said, snatching it away. "It might be poisoned!"

There was a knock on the front door. "Police!"

"Shit. I'm out!" Mrs Hudson booked it.

Lestrade and another officer walked in. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"Aren't those the same thing?" Sherlock asked as the officer snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

Greg sighed. "Please just come quietly."

Sherlock winked. "I never come quietly. Isn't that right, John?"

If looks could kill, Sherlock would still manage to miraculously survive or restart his own heart.

"Mrs Hudson if you touch any of my hair products while I'm gone I'll put another bullet in the wall!" Sherlock said as he was dragged out of the room.

The Superintendent walked in as the detective left. "Can't believe someone would trust him with a gun. He did look like a total weirdo. And I hate his hair." He crossed his arms and looked around the room. "What a dump." He turned to John, who had been staring at him with murder in his eyes. "What are _you_ looking at?"

Out on the street, the team of cops and Sherlock looked up at the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

"_That's_ for making fun of Sherlock's hair! And _that's_ for talking shit about my flat! And _that's_ because I have severe anger issues due to my emotional repression caused by the repressive hypermasculinity of this patriarchal society!" That last one might have been wood on flesh.

Minutes later John was slammed up against the police car next to Sherlock and the two men were handcuffed together.

"So now what?" John asked.

"Now we escape." Sherlock reached through the car window and changed the radio channel and turned the volume up. Iggy Azalea started blasting through the street. Several cops flinched, covering their ears. The detective took this opportunity to grab a gun from a nearby cop and aim it at the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen and piece of sentient garbage (that's you Anderson) would you please all get on your knees! Kthanksbye!" They booked it.

The Superintendent ran out of the building, most of his face swollen. "Go after them, dammit!"

"Sure, I just gotta...tie my shoes…" Lestrade knelt down.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John were sprinting down an alley a few blocks away. Sherlock jumped from a trash can over a metal gate blocking off the alleyway, leaving John on the other side with his handcuffed hand suspended at the top of the gate.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed the detective's coat and pulled him back to the fence. "I have always been in love with you."

"What?"

And then they kissed through the fence. It actually wasn't too awkward because Sherlock's thin alien face fit perfectly through the bars.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, pay attention!"

"Wait, what?"

John was still holding his coat. "This is no time to go to your mind palace! We have to get unstuck from this fence!"

After some sort of miraculous escape, they were both on the same side of the fence and took off running again. After a while, they slowed to a stop, leaning against a wall.

Sherlock wiped some sweat off his face. "Well, shit. Looks like we have no one left to help us.

"Maybe Mycroft could help. Or Molly."

"We have no one left to help us." Sherlock sighed. "I guess there's only one thing left to do." He turned to John and licked his lips. "Something I've been putting off for quite some time…"

John felt his heart beat fast. "Sh-Sherlock, are you sure?"

"Yeah. We're gonna jump in front of a bus."

"Wait, what?"

The bus driver was having a good day. Probably because he was already six beers on his way to becoming passed out drunk, but still. It was a good day.

That is, until he saw what appeared to be a string bean in a black coat dragging a screaming man by the handcuffs right into the street.

"Shit!" The driver swerved the bus into a nearby orphanage, killing all inside.

"Damn it! I wanted that to hit us!" Sherlock said. Fortunately (sort of), the destroyed building's foundation crumbled, causing a nearby lamp post to become unstable. It fell, the bulb part aimed straight for Sherlock's head.

A man ran across the street and dove, pushing Sherlock (and therefore John) out of harm's way. While they were still piled on top of each other, Sherlock reached down and grabbed the man's gun from his jeans, realized it wasn't a gun, shifted his hand to the right, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at the man.

"I recognize you—you're one of the assassins that lives next door to me. What do you want from us?"

"Moriarty said he planted it on you. The computer keycode," the man said. "Can I have it please?" But before he could say anything else he was gunned down by a sniper.

"How could Moriarty have planted a keycode on me?" Sherlock asked.

"Maybe an ass tattoo?" John suggested.

"Good idea. Can you check?"

"What?"

"What?"

John picked up a nearby newspaper, one of the article titles having caught his eye. "Hey, look at this article. Some bitch is talking shit about you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I know where we have to go next."

-Kitty Riley's Apartment-

Kitty walked into her apartment and turned on the lights. She jumped upon seeing two handcuffed men on her couch.

Sherlock grinned. "I have always wanted to say this." He stood up. John reluctantly stood up so his arm wasn't awkwardly dangling in the air. "And now back to this bitch who's had a lot to say about me in the press. Kitty what's good?"

**New chapter to celebrate the s4 trailer! If you haven't watched it yet, do it. **

**And yes, I know the meme at the end of this chapter is outdated, but Nicki will always remain #iconic**

**Next chapter may or may not be the fall scene...I already have the whole thing planned out, which I rarely do for this fic. I hope I don't disappoint!**


	33. Chapter 33

**I hate this fucking website because it wouldn't let me copy and paste this chapter so if the format is fucked up it's not my fault.**

**Chapter 33**

Sherlock began to pace. "Congratulations on your big scoop. The truth about Sherlock Holmes."

John shook the handcuffs that were still shackling him to the detective. He was awkwardly swiveling while the detective paced. "Look, I know we're supposed to be enemies and all, but do you have a hairpin or something? I really want these cuffs off."

"Oh, I picked the lock ages ago." Sherlock took the cuffs off, ignoring John's eye twitch. "Who's your source, anyway? For the article. Who is this 'Richard Brook'?"

As if on cue, the door opened and none other than Jim Moriarty walked in.

"Hey, hun, I got the goat cheese and the nail polish, so when you're ready we can—WHAT IN ALL NINE REALMS OF HELL ARE THESE FUCKERS DOING HERE?"

John's mouth dropped open. "Wait, _Moriarty_ is Richard Brook?"

Jim was backed against the wall. "No, I'm fucking Batman! Of course I'm Richard Brook!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Just Google it," Kitty said. "Richard Brook is an actor that Sherlock hired to play Moriarty." She handed John a file. "The story and all the details are in there."

Sherlock was silently staring at Jim, who turned to John.

"Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man. Please don't hurt me."

"Hurt you? I'm gonna fucking kill you!" The good doctor lunged at Jim, who let out a remarkably high pitched scream and ran into the kitchen.

"Sherlock paid me to do it. I was out of work and I needed the money," Jim said once the table was safely between them.

"You were on trial! I was there!" John said, chasing Jim around the table.

"Sherlock paid him to take the rap. Promised he would rig the jury," Kitty said. "I'm writing this all up in an article, by the way. I doubt you'd want your little assault episode to go in there as well."

"Shut up bitch, you're next." He picked up the toaster from the counter and hurled it at Jim's head. The criminal mastermind ducked and made a dash for the bathroom door.

"Don't let him get away!" John sprinted after him. He slammed into the closed door and jiggled the doorknob. "Dammit."

While they struggled with the locked door, everyone heard a crash which was presumably Jim landing on the dumpster below the bathroom window, followed by, "OW! MY FUCKING KNEE!"

Without breaking his stride, Sherlock turned and went back down the stairs. Kitty blocked his way.

"You know what, Sherlock Holmes? I see you now and I can read you." She leaned closer.

Before she could finish with the punchline of her insult, Sherlock said, "And you know what you can read? This!" He held up his fingers in the L sign for loser. The L was backwards.

John sighed and grabbed the detective's arm. "Come on, let's just go."

-Bart's Hospital-

Molly was doing some delicate lab work when Sherlock crawled out from under the table.

"You were wrong, you know."

She screamed and spilled acid all over her hand.

The detective looked on with at least some semblance of guilt. "Uh, ice pack?" He dodged when Molly splashed the rest of the acid at him. "Hey, watch the hair!"

"What the hell do you want?"

"Well, as I was saying, you were wrong. You do count. And probably add and subtract but I don't want to get ahead of myself. The point is, you suck and are kind of useless, but I need your help anyway."

Molly sighed. "Well, let's hope this isn't a two-handed job."

-The Diogenes Club-

Mycroft walked into his office with a cup of coffee, and jumped as the light near his desk turned on, revealing a glaring John sitting in his chair.

"Ha! Who has the dramatic surprise skills now, bitch?" John went back to glaring. He threw the file at Mycroft, but he missed the desk and the papers scattered all over the floor. "Look at this shit. Kitty Riley _and_ Moriarty have all kinds of dirt on Sherlock—stuff only someone close to him would know. And I sure as hell didn't give them that information."

Mycroft sighed. "I never intended for this to happen. We brought Moriarty in because he had a computer keycode that could unlock anything. We spent weeks interrogating him, tickled him for hours, but he never broke. He just sat there, staring into darkness. The only thing that could get him to open up…"

"...Was Sherlock's life story," John finished. "Nice going, asshole." He stormed out without another word.

-Back to ya boi Bart's-

Sherlock was attempting to make a yo-yo work when John walked in.

"I got your message," the doctor said. "Have you figured out what the computer code is?"

"No." The yo-yo string had become tightly tangled around his fingers and was slowly cutting off circulation. "But when we do, we can use it to erase his identity as Richard Brook. I know he left it somewhere in the flat on the day of the trial."

"Did he touch anything? Write anything down?"

"Europa!" Sherlock held up his non-yo-yo'd finger. "I know what the code is!"

"What? Also, it's eureka."

"Shut up. Also, the code must be…" Sherlock bent over a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. John leaned over his shoulder to look. It read, **I AM SHERLOCKED.**

"I am almost one hundred percent sure that's not the code," John said, then sighed and walked away.

Sherlock tapped his fingers, lost in thought. Wait a second...tapping! Like on a computer keyboard! Also Moriarty had been tapping a rhythm when he had visited 221b. _Binary code. _Sherlock picked up his phone. He had his answer.

He sent a quick text to Moriarty: **Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH**

A few hours later, John had dozed off when his phone rang. He jerked awake and answered it. "What up?" He fell silent as the other person spoke. "Wait, what?" He stood up. "Okay, okay—wow, that's really gross, you didn't need to include that. Yeah, I'm on my way."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked.

"It's Golem. He was going through our sock drawers for reasons I'm not going to articulate, when he heard Mrs Hudson get shot. She's dying, Sherlock. We gotta go."

"You go. I'm busy," Sherlock said, not moving.

"What the _fuck_ does that mean? Doesn't she mean anything to you at all?"

"I'm busy thinking! Stop pestering me, you're breaking our roommate contract." Sherlock crossed his arms, the very picture of a stubborn toddler. "She's just a landlady."

"She's _dying_," John said, his bisexual anger reaching new levels. "You _machine_."

"That's racist," Sherlock said.

If John had been holding something it would have shattered to pieces in his clenched fist. "You know what? Fuck this. I'm out. You can just stay here, alone." He walked out, slamming the door so hard that the glass shattered.

Sherlock waited until he was gone, then went to the roof.

-The Roof-

Moriarty was waiting on the roof, playing _Stayin' Alive_ by the Bee Gees from his shitty phone speaker.

"Ah, here we are," he said when Sherlock arrived. "Just the two of us and our final problem." He looked at his phone. "Staying alive is so boring, isn't it? It's just..._staying_."

"Well, would you rather be _changing_ alive?" Sherlock crossed his arms.

"I have nothing to say to that. Anyway, you lost the game. I beat you. And in the end, it was easy."

"But I found the key," Sherlock said. "You were tapping a rhythm back at my flat. It's binary code—every beat is one, every rest is zero. And I can use your code to bring back Jim Moriarty. Rekt!" He put on a pair of sunglasses.

Moriarty knocked the sunglasses from his face. "There is no code, DICKFUCK! There never was! Those digits are meaningless. Utterly meaningless."

Sherlock was confused. "But how did you break into all those places?"

"Daylight robbery! I'm a fucking criminal mastermind. You're more stupid than I ever could have imagined. _**STUPID**_!" He roared the last word, a vein bulging in his temple.

Silence fell over the rooftop, or it would have if the Bee Gees hadn't still been playing from Moriarty's phone.

"Wow," Sherlock said after a minute. "That came from a dark place. Are you okay? Do you need to get help?"

"Oh just shut up and kill yourself," Moriarty grumbled, chucking his phone off the rooftop. A cry of pain was heard from below.

-Baker Street-

John sprinted through the door, stopping short when he saw Mrs Hudson and a construction worker at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hi, John. Is everything okay?" Mrs Hudson asked.

All the blood drained from John's face. "Oh boy. I fucked up."

Mrs Hudson took out a frying pan from somewhere on her person. "Watch your fucking language, dear."

John sprinted for the nearest cab.

-Back on tha rooftop-

"Okay…" Sherlock clasped his hands together. "But what if I don't want to kill myself?"

Moriarty laughed and turned to the camera with a winning smile. "Are you sure about that? Who could resist the welcoming release of death?"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Fine. I'll give you some extra incentive. If you don't kill yourself, your friends will die."

Sherlock gasped. "My friends? Who are they?"

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Um...John?"

"Yeah."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yeah."

"Lestrade?"

"Yeah."

"You?"

"Wait, what?"

"Oh that's right! You don't have any friends!" Sherlock smirked and blasted an air horn.

Moriarty knocked it out of his hand. "Shut up! Just die already! That's the only way the snipers will be called off and your friends will live. _I'm_ not gonna call them off."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But you _could_, right?" When Moriarty didn't answer straight away, he cackled. "You could! So I don't have to die if I make you call them off."

"Good luck with that."

"You forget—I'm willing to do anything. I'm like you. If you want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint. I'd even suck dick."

"No you wouldn't. You're boring. You're on the side of the angles."

"It's angels."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Moriarty roared.

"I may be on the side of the angels, but I am not one of them." Sherlock suddenly had eyeliner and dyed hair. "Welcome to my twisted mind palace."

Jim gave a slow grin. "You're not an angel, are you? You're like me. And as long as I'm alive you've got a chance at saving your friends."

"Exactly."

"So now as the ultimate 'fuck you'..." Jim pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head.

Sherlock stared as Moriarty fell to the ground. "Uh oh spagetti-o's." He ran over to the edge of the roof and looked down at the street. Down below, John was getting out of a cab. "YO!" Sherlock waved his arms.

John looked up. "Sherlock?"

"Just stay where you are," Sherlock said. "Don't move."

"WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Being three stories up and across the street meant they were just out of shouting distance.

"I SAID—aw, fuck this." Sherlock told John everything about how he was a fraud and was leaving a suicide note, all in BSL.

John struggled to follow along. "WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT A POTATO? I SUCK AT BSL!" Several passersby began to walk faster.

Sherlock spread his arms out parallel to his body.

"What, is that a T?"

Sherlock jumped off the roof.

"Oh, god." John started to run across the street. "SHERLOCK!"

His friend's arms were still spread out as he plummeted towards the pavement, the cement rushing up to meet him—

John stopped typing on his laptop and looked up. Sherlock had just come out of his bedroom in 221b and was looking over his shoulder.

"I'm writing a suspense story about us," he explained. "I thought I'd start something new since there aren't a lot of cases for me to blog about."

"It looks pretty good," Sherlock said. "But you should probably wake up now."

"What?" John asked as a beeping noise, like a heart monitor, began to sound…

John woke up to the bright white lights of a hospital room. He was wearing a hospital gown and the beeping of typical hospital equipment continued in the background. He was probably in a hospital.

"Where am I?" he asked as a doctor approached his bedside. John recognized the facial features immediately. "Sherlock? What the hell?"

"My name is Stephen Strange," Not-Sherlock said. "You've been in a coma for seven long years, John. Welcome back."

"But you're…" John gaped.

"Sherlock Holmes? I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." The doctor winked and left—

"And that's how Sherlock survived the fall!" Anderson said.

Lestrade frowned and took a swig from his coffee cup. "Resorting to superheroes with similar faceclaims, now? You've been coming up with these theories for two years, Anderson. Give it a rest."

Anderson sighed and dumped his coffee in a nearby trash bin. "Fine. But I still believe in Sherlock Holmes." He left, heading back to his flat. On the way back he bumped into a rather handsome army doctor with a limp…

"And that's how I met your father." John Watson-Anderson put a hand on his husband's knee as he finished his story. All fourteen of their horrendously ugly children stared up at them with wide eyes.

"That's a cool story, dad," said their fifth child, whose name John had forgotten. "Now can you tell us about the one where you fought a dragon?"

John leaned back on the couch. "Well—"

He snapped out of the admittedly weird daydream. The day was misty and cold, and he was standing in a crowd of people dressed in black. They were all here for Sherlock's funeral.

John bit back tears as the coffin was lowered into the grave. He had never gotten to tell him how he felt. And now it was too late. Beside him, Mrs Hudson dabbed her eyes with a tissue. John patted her back, feeling a lump in the back of his throat.

The priest stepped up and opened his Bible. He cleared his throat amidst the sniffles and sobs in the crowd. "According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? Barry? Adam? Oan you believe this is happening? I can't. I'll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I'm excited. Here's the graduate. We're very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. You got lint on your fuzz. Ow! That's me! Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000. Bye! Barry, I told you,  
stop flying in the house! Hey, Adam. Hey, Barry. Is that fuzz gel? A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I'm glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. Hi, Barry. Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. Hear about Frankie? Yeah. You going to the funeral? No, I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. Amen."

Everyone clapped. A few yards away, Sherlock watched from behind a tree. He smirked, holding his will in one hand, and walked away.

**There are three references in this chapter. Anyone who finds them gets extra points.**

**So how'd I do on that last segment? The whole sequence came to me in a fever dream a few months ago and I jotted it down for future reference. And now that that's done with, I'm moving on to Season 3, Magnussen, Mary...excited?**

**Thanks for all the support for this fic. Leave a comment down below letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

"...And that is definitely how he survived the fall."

Lestrade resisted the urge to throw his hot coffee on Anderson's face. "Seriously? You think Sherlock would kiss a _woman_? Not only that, but _willingly_? Not only that, but _Molly_?"

"I admit there are a few flaws in my theory, but it's still sound!" Anderson said.

"At least it's not as bad as the one with Ainsley Harriott and the bouncy house. Or the one with the car crash and then he ends up in Tibet. Or the one with the lizard people."

"I get it, I get it." Anderson sighed and dumped his coffee in a nearby trash bin. "Fine. Maybe I need to refine my theories a bit. But I still believe in Sherlock Holmes." He left, heading back to his flat. On the way back, he spotted a shiny penny and bent over to pick it up, subsequently missing the rather handsome army doctor walking in the other direction…

And thus the alternate timeline from last chapter was averted.

-Serbia-

Sherlock was bookin it through some dark woods. Up above, he could hear the sound of helicopter blades and the footsteps of soldiers through the underbrush. He ducked at the sound of gunfire.

"Ow! Steve, you just shot me in the foot!" said one of the soldiers.

"Not my fault! It was the lag!"

Finally, Sherlock tripped over his own very long beard and the soldiers were able to capture him.

-Later-

"Ouch!"

The man torturing Sherlock—let's call him Grundel—paused. "I just hit your nutsack with a metal pipe and you say 'ouch'?"

Sherlock mumbled something and Grundel bent down to hear him better. "What's that? My wife is sleeping with the coffin maker? I knew something was going on!" He dropped the metal pipe and ran out of the room.

Another previously unmentioned man sitting in the shadowed area of the room cleared his throat. "And now it's just you and me." He pulled a chain to turn on the lamp next to him. And pulled it again. And again. "Fuck, is this thing broken? Okay, whatever." He walked over to where Sherlock was being supported by chains. "There is a terrorist attack about to happen in London. We need you back at Baker Street, Sherlock."

The detective nodded, then proceeded to cough up blood all over Mycroft's shoes.

-Gayker Street-

John trudged up the stairs toward his old flat. Memories of violin music and broken windows played in his mind. He was about halfway up when a frying pan swung down and clocked him right in the face. John was out like a light.

-Mycroft's Office-

"You've been quite the busy little bee," Mycroft said, looking over some papers at his desk. Sherlock was having his horrible beard shaved off at the other end of the room.

"Moriarty's network took me two years to dismantle," Sherlock said. "All I needed was the file with all the names of his associates. It took me a year and a half to find, until I realized it was in my sock drawer the whole time. From there it was easy."

"And you're confident that the whole thing is dismantled?"

Sherlock nodded. The barber cursed at him. "Like the Christmas of '87."

Mycroft shuddered. "No need to bring that up."

"Uh-huh."

"And a small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?"

Mycroft's eye twitched. "I waded in there myself and got you out! Have you any idea what it was like, to have to smuggle myself in there? I had to wear Timbs, Sherlock. TIMBS!"

Sherlock lifted his chin and pffffft'd. "Sounds like a real struggle."

"You know, it's not a good idea to antagonize the man holding a sharp blade very, very close to your jugular," the barber said.

"Sure thing, Barb."

"That's not my name."

Just then, Anthea from like a million chapters ago came in with a garment bag over one arm.

"My coat!" Sherlock sat up quickly, which wasn't a smart idea because it caused the razor to go inside his neck. Massive bleeding ensued.

The barber held up his hands. "Okay, that one wasn't me."

-Baker Street-

John came to and blinked, his vision blurring. He saw a blond head leaning over him. "Kevin from Home Alone?" His vision focused. "Mrs Hudson!"

"You weren't far off, dear," she said. "I've had to put booby traps all over the building to keep out these crazy Sherlock fans. Speaking of which…" She smacked John's kneecaps with her frying pan. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson." John tried to stand then realized that wasn't the best idea. "I just let it slide. I let it all slide—my job, my social life, my eating habits…"

"Your sense of respectability," Mrs Hudson finished for him, referencing his horrendous mustache.

John sighed. "It's _great_ to be back…"

-Mikey's Office-

Mycroft was pacing back and forth, holding a baton for some reason. "This matter requires your utmost attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

"Uh huh." Sherlock, now neck-wound-less, was turning back and forth in front of the mirror, checking out his button up from all angles.

"One of our men died getting this information. All of our spies, all of the traffic and chatter leads us to the conclusion that there is going to be a terrorist strike on London. It's going to be big. It's going to be bad. People will die in deadly ways. We have basic intel, but we need you on the case. The very fate of the free world depends on it. Will you accept this mission?"

Sherlock turned around. "Wait, so what's going on?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, grip turning white around the baton.

"Also, how's John doing?" Sherlock went back to checking his ass in his new dress pants.

Anthea and Mycroft exchanged an exasperated glance.

"I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." Mycroft handed Sherlock a file.

"Well I hope it was a _nice weather_ eye," Sherlock said, opening the file. "What the son of a fuck? What is _**THIS**_." He pointed at the growth on John's upper lip. "That's going. It's gone. I can't."

"You can't _even_," Mycroft corrected him.

"Whatever! The point is, _many_ things are going to change now." Sherlock whipped on a pair of sunglasses and turned to the camera. "Sherlock Holmes is back in business!"

**Didn't get as many comments on the last chapter as I expected, but live and let live I guess. Anyway, thanks for reading this chapter and I hope you ****enjoyed**** it. Leave a comment letting me know what you thought, it helps me out a lot.**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Sherlock capped his dry erase marker and turned away from the whiteboard. "The main plan is foolproof enough, but I've got five backups just in case."

Mycroft studied the board. "Yes, your plan to shave off John's mustache is quite detailed, but what about the imminent terrorist threat on the entirety of London?"

"Pfffffffffffft. Terrorist schmerorist. John looks ancient with that _thing_ on his face. I can't be seen wandering around with an old man." He closed the file and threw it on Mycroft's desk. It missed, landing on the floor and scattering papers everywhere. "Anyways, I gotta get back to Baker Street and see John. Maybe I can catch him while he's asleep and shave off that abomination."

"Baker Street?" Mycroft asked. He considered bending down to pick up the papers, then shrugged and pushed them under his desk with one foot. "He's not there anymore."

"Not there anymore?" The camera did a dramatic zoom on Sherlock's confused face.

"Why would he be? It's been two years. He's gotten on with his life."

"Okay, well, where is he going to be tonight?"

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion."

"Personally I prefer the 2001 Space Odyssey," Sherlock said, who had never drank anything stronger than milk. "Maybe I'll drop by this Mary Bone place."

Mycroft sighed. "I'll call a cab for you, then. Lord knows you couldn't find it on your own."

-Mayrle sdbone d Rods-

Sherlock walked in the super fancy restaurant and was confronted by the maître d'.

"Can I help you, sir?" the man asked.

"Uh, hi mater D. I'm mater C."

This was apparently the right thing to say because the man nodded conspiratorially and walked away.

Sherlock left the door unattended and continued into the restaurant. He crawled under the tables, stealing a bowtie, a pair of glasses, several wallets, and an eyeliner pen which he used to draw on a full beard, stronger eyebrows, and contours for his cheekbones.

He walked over to John's table, took a deep breath, and put on his best French accent.

"Ohoho oui oui, mon ami, je m'appelle Lafayette, can I get you anything to—how do you say—drink?"

"I'll have a bottle of champagne, please," John said, still looking at the menu.

"Is there anything you would particularly like to—how do you say—have?"

"Not really. Surprise me."

Sherlock looked into the camera awkwardly as John failed to look up once more. "Right then, sir. I will be right—how do you say—back."

The detective-turned-waiter left and John took a small box out of his jacket pocket, opening it to check its contents. He had searched for months for the perfect engagement ring, going through every dumpster in the city to find one that he wouldn't have to pay for.

A blonde lady came back and sat across from him. "Sorry that took so long."

John shoved the box back in his pocket.

"You okay?" The lady asked. Let's just call her Mary since her real name is unknown.

"Yeah."

"So what were you going to ask me?"

"Well, uh…" John shifted in his seat. This was it. He was finally moving on to a new life. A life without—

Sherlock came back with a champagne bottle. "I think you will especially like this vintage, sir. It is familiar with an element of—how do you say—surprise."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's _exactly_ how you say surprise, for god's sake." He finally looked up. "This isn't a really good time, so could you just—" His eyes widened as he recognized the man in front of him.

"Eh…" Sherlock stalled as a tense silence ensued. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I was your flatmate a couple of years ago if you need a—how do you say—aide-mémoire."

"Why would you say _how do you say_ it's a FUCKING French word!" John slammed his fist on the table.

"Uh, John? People are staring," Mary said.

"Two years." John let out a shaky breath. "Two long years. How could you do that to me?"

"Wait, do what?" Sherlock was confused. "I was away for two years."

John calmly climbed onto the table and SUSUSUPER SLAMSLAMSLAMMED Sherlock into the ground, spiderweb cracks appearing in the marble floor.

John Watson watched in shock as his Cena counterpart began wrestling Sherlock. "Bastard stole my thunder…"

-Post-Being Thrown at the Restaurant and Sherlock's Rehabilitating Surgery-

"I calculated thirteen possibilities of escaping the rooftop alive," Sherlock said. They were all sitting at a table in a small cafe. "Twelve of them hinged on the ability of my hoverboard to actually resist the pull of gravity, which, in hindsight, left me with only one available plan. In that one, I would throw the hoverboard off the roof, then jump off as well and hit A, performing a jump attack—"

"You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick," John said.

"Wait, really?" Sherlock blushed, thinking of the time he had 'accidentally' showered with the bathroom door open.

"Yeah. I don't care how you faked it, I want to know _why_."

"Oh." Sherlock was disappointed. "You sure you don't want to hear the story? It was so epic!"

"No," John said. His waning patience was evident in his voice.

"But I faked my death! Not any old Joe can do that!"

"Oh, really? Fake THIS!" John lunged across the table.

-Kebab Shop-

The gang (and Mary) was forced to relocate once again, having been thrown out of the cafe.

Sherlock patted the cut on his lip with a paper napkin. "This is not fake at all," he said sadly. "Also, I still hate your mustache."

"I don't care," John said. "Mary likes it."

Behind his back, Mary shook her head slightly.

"One word, Sherlock," John said. "One word that you were still alive, that's all I would have needed."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, thinking.

"What? Are you going to say something?"

"Which word?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"You said you needed one word, which word would that be?"

John grabbed a kebab stick from the counter, prepared to do unspeakable things with it, but Mary stepped in at the last moment.

"Okay, let's not make any decisions we're going to regret."

Sherlock smirked. "Admit it. You missed this. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, my hot, sexy body against yours—"

John promptly used his skull as a blunt weapon against Sherlock's face.

-Post-Being Kicked Out _Again-_

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, holding the paper napkin against the crushed remnants of his nose. "I said sorry. Aren't you supposed to say that?"

"For the record, you never actually apologized," Mary said from beside him. John was angrily hailing a cab from down the street. "You don't know anything about human nature, do you?"

"Well, if you're talking about the hit single by American pop singer Michael Jackson, then I could tell you all about it. But if you're talking about the naturally occurring distinguishing characteristics of the homo sapiens species, I could also tell you all about that."

Mary smiled sweetly. "I see why people hate you."

Sherlock scrutinized her, then went into deduction mode. Words like _psychopath_, _bird-watcher_, _cannibal_, _assassin_, _virgin_, _sweet_ _tooth_, _Coldplay_ _fan_, and _dog_ _lover _smacked him in the face.

Sherlock reeled back in horror, unable to comprehend that John was going to marry this woman. "What the fuck?"

Mary frowned. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took two popsicle sticks out of his pocket and held them in a cross shape. "I-I can't believe it took me this long to see your true nature. Back, demon, back I say!"

Mary glanced back at John, who was still angrily hailing cabs even though the street was practically empty. "The hell are you talking about?"

"_Coldplay?_ Seriously?"

**I would have updated earlier but I've been binge-watching those Lazy Town videos for the past three days so...**

**Anyway, Sherson Marguerite and Co. are back together? What do you guys think of Mary? She's going to be a fun character to play around with. And no, the John Cena meme isn't dead yet. You just can't see him anymore.**

**I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and as always leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot~**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

John punched the cab window, ignoring the angry shouts from the driver. "Can you believe the _nerve_ of him?"

Mary shrugged and smiled. "I like him."

John spat coffee all over the seat in front of him. "_What_?"

"I swear, I will stop this cab," the driver said, but was ignored.

"He seems like a nice guy," Mary said, sharpening a knife. "I'm sure we're going to have tons of fun. Also, where did you get coffee?"

"Shut up."

-Bart's Hospital-

Molly entered the locker room after a long day of work. She opened the door to her locker and gasped.

"Hi there. I'm back," Sherlock said from where he was crammed in the medium-sized locker. "Could you help me out? I think I'm stuck."

-Parking Garage-

Lestrade woke up from where he'd been napping on the roof of his car. He looked down. Someone had stolen his shoes again. "Shit." He got in his car and cranked the engine.

"Those things will kill you, you know," Sherlock said from the backseat.

Predictably, Greg screamed in surprise, slamming on the gas and shooting backwards into the car across the aisle.

"See? I'm a genius," Sherlock said as the other car's engine began smoking.

-John and Mary's House-

The two of them were lying in bed.

"You up?" John asked.

"Yeah," Mary said.

John heard crying from somewhere in the room. "What's that?"

"Oh, must be the baby."

"What?"

"We're married, remember?"

John screamed and sat bolt upright in bed, covered in a cold sweat. He looked around the room, relieved to find no signs of a crib or a baby. He looked over and, yep, Mary was still there. "Dammit."

-Baker Street-

Sherlock pushed open the door, then went to Mrs. Hudson's apartment, knocking on the door. She opened it and, upon seeing his face, screamed and used her frying pan to flatten his nose for the second time in twenty-four hours.

-Bart's Hospital, Two Years Ago-

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock spread his arms and plummeted over the side of the building.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, frozen in shock. Then he blinked in surprise as Sherlock appeared back at the top of the building. This time he was wearing a tacky red cloak and had a cringy goatee.

"Dormamu! I have come to bargain."

"Okay, hold up, hold up," Anderson, breaking the flashback sequence. "No fandom crossovers," he said to the fan who had been stating her theory. "That's one of the rules of our creepy, ridiculous fan club that would honestly be better suited on tumblr."

The girl who had been telling her theory frowned and started to retort, but was cut off as her phone buzzed. She checked it and her mouth fell open. "Oh. My. God."

Hashtags like #SherlockLives and #SherlockHolmesAlive! and #SherlockHolmesNotDead began flying around the room. The member's of the fan club quickly realized that the hashtags were pretty sharp and began fleeing the room, screaming for their lives.

"How does he do that?" Anderson asked after narrowly avoiding being decapitated.

-John and Mary's Flat-

Mary grinned at her iPad. "_His movements were so silent. So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking up a scent. I couldn't help thinking what an amazing criminal he'd make if he turned his talents against the law_."

John sighed from the bathroom. "Are you seriously reading fanfiction about me and Sherlock?"

"No, this is straight from your blog!" Mary looked down at the iPad again. "_And I couldn't help but imagine what a great lover he would be if he'd turned his talents to the bedroom…_"

John turned red. "Now you just made that part up, I didn't write that!" _All of my Johnlock smut is on my AO3 account anyway_, he thought to himself.

-Elsewhere-

Sherlock tilted his head down, his voice coming out all rumbly. "London. It's like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents, and drifters are irresistibly drained. Sometimes it's not a question of 'Who?"; it's a question of 'Who knows?' If this man cancels his papers, I need to know. If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know. There are certain people that are markers. If they start to move, I'll know something's up, like rats deserting a sinking ship." He looked up from the microphone. "How'd I do?"

The man on the other side of the glass at the recording studio scowled at him. "You're supposed to be _advertising_ London, mate! Not telling it like it is! I hired you because Benedict Cumberbatch has deepest, sexiest voice ever, the kind that could convince the Pope to sin, but you can't even do this right!"

"Who's Benedict Cumberbatch?"

-221b, Later-

Mycroft growled as the game in front of him buzzed once more. "I'm supposed to be playing Operation, but this one annoying little brother keeps kicking my ass."

"Why are you narrating your life? I'm sitting right here, I can see everything you do," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock's supposed to be shutting down a terrorist organization, but this one army doctor keeps _distracting him_."

Sherlock smirked. "Are you jealous?"

"The hell would I be jealous of?"

"I can tell that you're lonely. I thought you would have found someone to spend your time with while I was gone for those two years."

"I need no one," Mycroft growled, unwilling to admit that he'd completely immersed himself in meme culture and had no time to dedicate to a relationship.

"Suit yourself." Sherlock looked down at the Operation board. "Yet you can't handle a broken heart, how very telling."

Mycroft put on a pair of huge sunglasses and a luscious wig. "I can't read suddenly, I don't know."

**So after the shitshow that was season 4, I have returned. I don't know if you're all as disappointed as I am but rest assured that the shitty writing will make it even easier for me to parody it! So stay strong and I'll see you with another chapter soon!**

**(Also I started a Walking Dead parody if any of you are interested.)**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Sherlock smirked at his brother. Mycroft glared back at him.

"Don't be smart. I'm the smart one," Mycroft said. "Even our psychopath sister was smarter than you."

"Our psychopath what now?"

"In fact, we both used to think you were a complete idiot, until we met…" The lighting dimmed. "_Other children_."

"Oh, yes, that was a complete mistake."

"We were probably trying to make friends," Microsoft said. "But you go in for that sort of thing now, don't you?"

"And you don't? Ever?" Sherlock asked.

"No…" Mycroft said, thinking about how he had been crushing on Lady Smallwood since third grade.

"Well, London's terror threat is on critical," Sherlock said, standing up. "So let's play another game."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Why are we playing games?"

"You'll see." Sherlock turned on the TV.

-One Hour Later-

Mycroft growled as he crashed his car yet again. They were taking turns playing GTA 5 and Mycroft's reaction time was clearly lacking. "Okay, just one more try. I'm busy, I have to get back to work."

Sherlock grabbed the controller and successfully stole a plane from the military base. He crossed his arms over his face and recited Big Smoke's order.

Mycroft crashed another car and was swiftly mugged. "Where's the umbrella gun?" he grumbled.

"The fucking what?"

"Dammit." Mycroft winced as he fell off the docks and a shark ate him. A few minutes later, a hooker came up to him. "Uh…" His hands started sweating. "Sherlock, what do I do?"

"Oh, right, I forgot you have even less experience with woman than I do. And that's saying something!" Sherlock laughed heartily.

Mrs Hudson walked in and watched them argue over the controller. She, of course, had already completed all fifteen games. "Scrubs."

"Sherlock, this man clearly isn't trustworthy! Look at the buttons on his shirt! We should have taken the other sidequest!"

Sherlock smirked and leaned back. "Exactly."

"What?"

"You heard me."

-John's GP Office-

Mary walked in with a smile. She saw John sitting in his office chair, staring blankly at the wall with an intense expression.

"Uh...John? Mr Summerson is here to see you."

John kept staring at the wall. Mary left.

-Baker Street-

Once Mycroft had left, Sherlock had returned to work. Mrs Hudson walked in to see him drawing a mustache on a picture of a man taped onto the wall.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Talk to John."

"I've already tried talking to him," Sherlock said, not looking up from his work. "He won't respond to me."

Slowly, Mrs Hudson turned to the balloon sitting in John's chair. The red inflatable object had a picture of Martin Freeman taped to the front. "And what did he say?"

"F…" Sherlock trailed off into silence.

"What?"

"Don't worry, it'll make cinematographic sense."

-Somewhere Else-

"Cough," John said.

-221Bitches-

Molly knocked on the door of 221b and walked in. "You wanted to see me?"

"No," Sherlock said. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Uh…"

"Wait." Sherlock deduced Molly. She could serve as a John replacement...that is, if he squinted his eyes until they were closed and pictured John in her place. He stood up and walked towards her. "Would you like to…"

"Get rid of this stupid unrequited love subplot the writers keep forcing me into?"

"Solve crimes?" Sherlock said at the same time.

"What?"

"What?"

-Doc's Office-

John was writing a prescription for one of his patients. Mary knocked on the door. The pen in John's hand snapped.

-221b-

"The matter at hand is quite distressing. And we hope you will find this problem pressing. So says Mr. Stewart."

Sherlock and Molly stared at the weird pair of clients before them. Mr. Stewart was a man in a wheelchair who wore a gas mask and only spoke to his companion, a man in a white suit who then relayed the information in rhyming pairs.

"Do you normally get clients like this?" Molly whispered to Sherlock, who was still trying to deduce how to wheelchair got to the second floor.

-Johnny's Place-

"It's just a small infection," John explained to the old man sitting in his office.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the old man replied in a thick accent. He had long white hair and sunglasses. "I run a shop, you know. I brought some DVDs you might like." He started pulling DVD cases out of a sketchy plastic bag. "Here we go. _Land and Freedom_, that's a good one. _Man of Marble_ is also a gem."

"I'm fine, thanks," John said.

"This one is a classic," the old man continued as though he hadn't heard John. "Though you really just wanna fast forward to the part where they put all the Yankee Candles in a blender. Then it gets _real_ spicy."

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" John asked, a vein pulsing in his temple. "Are you just here to torment me?"

"What are you talking about?"

John leapt up and tore off the man's hat and glasses. "It's not even that good of a disguise, Sherlock! And your accent is even worse than your French!"

"Are you crazy?" the man tried to defend himself, but to no avail as his beard was pulled off.

John gasped as he uncovered the man's disguise.

Bernie Sanders stood up, fists clenched in rage. "Why, I outta…" The US Senator socked John in the face.

-Half an hour later-

John woke up to see Mary standing over him.

"Falling asleep on the job again, John?"

He looked around wildly, sitting up from where he had slumped down in his chair. Senator Sanders was nowhere to be seen.

-A basement somewhere-

Sherlock and Molly were on their first case together. Lestrade had shown them a recently-discovered room which contained a skeleton sitting at a desk. Sherlock immediately went over and sniffed at the skeleton. He then fell to the floor, choking and writhing as centuries worth of dust was vacuumed into his nasal system at high speeds.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked. She ducked as the words _Pine Spruce Cedar New mothballs_ nearly hit her in the face.

Once Sherlock had recovered, he took out his phone to try and get a signal.

"You're onto something, aren't you?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, probably."

_Show off_, John's voice whispered in Sherlock's head.

"Shut up, John."

"What was that?" Molly asked.

"John isn't here and I miss him terribly."

Lestrade woke up from sleeping on the desk. "Say what?"

"I said you're ugly shut up."

-Doctor's Office-

Mary walked in to check on John. There were hundreds of broken popsicle sticks on the desk, and he was staring blankly at the wall once more.

-Skeleton Basement-

Sherlock inspected one of the skeleton's hands while Molly looked at the neck. He went to blow the dust on the hand away.

"That doesn't make any sense," Molly said. "This skeleton can't be any older than six months old."

Sherlock gasped, subsequently inhaling more dust and dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes. On his way down he accidentally opened a hidden compartment in the desk. Inside it was an old book.

"_How I Did It_, by Jack the Ripper," Molly read since Sherlock was still incapacitated.

"How he did what?" Lestrade mumbled.

"This is all fake," Sherlock proclaimed, standing up. "It's a set up. I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."

"No, please. Insult away," Greg said. "I guess."

"Your mom." Sherlock insulted. He threw on a pair of sunglasses, and walked away, but since he couldn't see where he was going in the dim room, he ended up tripping over the skeleton and crashed to the floor for the third time. Greg and Molly watched in silence as he disentangled himself and felt his way over to the door.

"Why would someone go through all that trouble?" Molly wondered.

"Why indeed, John," Sherlock said. He stumbled up the stairs. Moments later, they heard a loud crash and Sherlock's surprised scream, which was cut off as he landed back in the basement. Molly bent over and took the sunglasses off his face.

**As you can see I play a lot of ****video games****... Did anyone get the reference from Sherlock and Molly's clients?**

**I can't remember if I've said this before, but quick shoutout to sherlockian-quiet for being a real MVP and supporting me throughout this whole thing. I appreciate it more than you know.**

**Sidenote, I started a sherlock sideblog called smallcroft where i post more shitty fan fiction. Feel free to follow.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and as always feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think. It helps me out a lot.**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Sherlock knocked on the door to a flat, with Molly at his side. A regular white guy opened the door. The Thomas the Train theme song was playing at unbelievable volume in the background.

"Come on in," the guy, whose name was Howard, said and stepped aside to let them through. Molly began to tremble as she entered. Everything...the carpets, the wallpaper, the doorknobs...even the goddamn toilet paper had Thomas's face on it. Everywhere, the blue paint, those round, unblinking eyes, that flat, pearly white smile…

"So what is this about, Mister…" Sherlock was cut off as a train whistle from a nearby Thomas-themed speaker blasted at fifty decibels, nearly killing him.

Howard grinned at them from the doorway. "I like trains."

Molly nodded slowly, planning any and all exit routes that they could take.

He led them into his office. "I work for the Tube, the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it's been cleared." He sat down at his computer and turned it on.

Molly's eyebrows shot up as unspeakable artwork of Thomas the Train and his buddy Henry appeared on the screen.

"Uh—fuck—" Thankfully Howard was more adept at clicking away than John was, and within a second the correct image was displayed on the screen. It showed a man getting on the train at one stop, and then the train coming to the next stop and no one getting off. "There aren't any stops in between, and he couldn't have jumped off." He turned to Sherlock. "Got any ideas?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined trains going into tunnels. Then he imagined "trains" going into "tunnels".

"Uh, Sherlock?" Molly said.

His eyes snapped open. "What? Yeah, I have ideas. Lots of 'em. Hehe..."

-Baker Street-

John finally caved in and went to the flat he used to share with Sherlock. As he looked up at the windows, a man walked by and bumped him in the shoulder.

Now, John had already had a bad day. On a normal Tuesday, he would have brushed it off with a sarcastic comment. But this bump, after the Bernie Sanders incident and the rest of his shitty day, was the icing on the cake.

"Wanna go m8?" John snarled, slipping into 1337speak as he grabbed the man's arm.

Another man, who had intended to walk up from the other direction and tranquilize John, faltered at the pure anger radiating from the 5'5 man.

"Uh...actually…" the first guy made panicked eye contact with the syringe guy.

Syringe guy worked up his courage and jammed the needle into John's neck. John was out like a light, but not before he managed to sucker punch the first guy.

-Back at Howard's-

Sherlock and Molly walked out of the flat.

"Congratulations, by the way," Sherlock said, referencing her engagement ring.

"Oh, thanks." After a pause, she said, "He's not from work. We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We...he's got a dog...we-we go to the pub on weekends and he...I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family. I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

"Me neither," Sherlock said. "Well, I guess not all the guys you date can be sociopaths."

Molly smiled. "Maybe it's just my type."

"Edgy."

-221b, Later-

Mary rushed through the front door.

"Who the hell are you?" Mrs Hudson asked, ready to trip her up.

"Oh, I'm John's fiancée."

"_Fiancée_? What the fuck?" Mrs Hudson was still trying to do the math by the time Mary reached the top of the stairs and found Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I received a text recently."

The text read: _Save souls now! John or James Watson? Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?_

"At first I thought it was just spam, but I realized it was a skip code. It says, _Save John Watson, Saint James the Less_."

"That's not good." Sherlock looked down at his basket of chips, then shoved the remaining five in his pockets and raced down the stairs.

"Saint James the Less. It's a church nearby. Come on, Mary, we have to hurry!" Sherlock said, running out into the street and promptly getting bowled over by a car.

Mary found him lying ten feet from his starting position with his uneaten chips scattered on the pavement. A passing motorcycle stopped and its two passengers got off.

"Hey, mate, are you okay?"

"Tricked ya!" Sherlock jumped up and mounted the bike, pulling Mary on behind him. They sped off.

Mary received another text that said _Getting warmer Mr Holmes. You have about ten minutes_. She held it up to Sherlock, who stupidly decided to read it and ended up crashing the bike.

Don't text and drive kids!

Mary sighed, grabbed another motorcycle from an inattentive cop, and pulled Sherlock on. "I'm driving this time." She handed Sherlock the phone. "Keep an eye out for any texts."

A couple minutes later, a new text read: _8 minutes and counting…_

_Stop being a meanie :(_ Sherlock responded.

They were coming up on a bridge, which was slowly rising due to a large boat passing through the river.

"How is this huge bridge in the middle of London?" Sherlock asked.

"Steven and Mark wanted some action! Hold on!" Mary floored it and sped over the gap, doing a sick flip mid-air. Sherlock screamed at a high C note the whole time.

Then they came across a roadblock. Without even stopping, Mary turned and headed down some stairs. Sherlock's screams were punctuated by each step.

"AaAaAaAaAaA…"

He received a new text message: _Better hurry! Things are hotting up in here…_

"Isn't it heating up?" Sherlock wondered out loud.

-Meanwhile-

John woke up and realized he was covered in large pieces of wood. "Well, this isn't the weirdest place I've woken up." He sniffed the air. "Is that gasoline I smell?"

A few yards away, Mary and Sherlock had reached the park where the bonfire was being held. Sherlock received one last text: _What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!_

Just then, the pile of wood caught ablaze. Mary turned her head and realized what was happening. "Oh my god."

"Uh, Mary, you might want to watch out for—" Sherlock was cut off as their motorcycle rammed into a tree.

With both of his would-be rescuers incapacitated, things weren't looking good for John. He struggled but the wood was too heavy. "HELP!" he shouted. Several people gasped in horror.

"I'll save you!" The crowd parted as a tall, gangly man ran through. It was Golem! He yanked John out of the bonfire by his legs, nearly dislocating both femurs in the process. John coughed up some smoke and passed out.

The crowd cheered at this heroic act. Golem dabbed.

**No I'm not dead. I had a shit ton of work from school. I also ****had to take a break from Sherlock after the shit show that was season 4. But I'm back now and ready to parody the shit out of the next two seasons. Fuck you Moffat and**** Gatiss!**

**Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story. Leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot.**


	39. Chapter 39

**This chapter is slightly nsfw, so don't read it as a bedtime story to your kids.**

**Chapter 39**

-222222222222221b, The Next Morning-

Sherlock had his hands in their normal prayer position as he listened to a old man and woman talk. This time, he was actually praying—for a quick death, among other things.

"...which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?'" The woman turned to her husband. "He's _always_ losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"

"'Fraid so," said the man.

Sherlock let out a strange groan under his breath. "I'm losing my patience right now."

"What was that, dear?"

"I said, this is a really cool and interesting story."

The woman nodded. "I said, 'Why don't you get a chain—wear 'em round your neck?' And he says—"

Just then, John walked in. He noticed the couple sitting on the sofa and stopped. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were busy."

"NOnonono I'm not busy." Sherlock rushed to the side of the sofa, lifted it up and unceremoniously dumped the old couple out through the window.

John watched them land with a crash on the sidewalk. "...Were those clients?"

"No, just, uh, my parents."

"You have parents?"

"Uh, duh."

John shook his head in disbelief.

"What?"

"They're just so...ordinary." He looked out the window. Sherlock's parents were getting up from the crater they'd made in the concrete sidewalk and brushing themselves off like it was nothing. "Never mind."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a cross I have to bear."

John turned away from the window. "Did they know too?"

"Hmm?"

"That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek."

Sherlock nodded and stroked his chin. "It's a good question, and very pertinent to our current situation. The last two years, in fact, have had a great impact on my life. Two years, you see, is quite a long time. As for what I was doing during those two years, well, I wouldn't exactly call it hide and seek. It was a dangerous and perilous—"

"Just answer the damn question!"

"...Yeah. They knew."

"Of course," John grumbled.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Sherlock lowered his head. "Sorry." He tried giving John puppy dog eyes.

"That look is horrifying on you. Don't ever do that again."

"Okay." Sherlock decided to change the subject. "So you shaved off your mustache?"

"Yeah. What, did you not like it?"

"No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven."

John blushed at the strange comment. "Er, Sherlock, if there's something you're trying to say…"

"Did you ever get food stuck in it?"

John sat down in his red chair. "I'm not going to dignify that question with an answer." He looked up. "Actually, I have a question about last night. Who put me in that bonfire? And why me?"

"I don't know. It's possible it could have something to do with the terrorist warning Mycroft gave me."

"And what would that be?"

"Just that an underground network was plotting a terrorist attack on London. Basically the plot of every James Bond movie." He tapped his chin with one finger and turned back to the collage he'd put on the wall. "Maybe this has to do with the weird train guy I saw earlier…"

"Weird train guy?"

"Yes, yes. Perhaps when the agent mentioned an underground network, he meant…"

"Wait, what agent? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped into a perfect O shape. "OOOOOHHHHH OF COURSE!" He spun around to face John. "It's not an underground network, it's an _underground network_!"

"What?"

"I am so unbelievably turned on right now."

John stood up and grabbed Sherlock's face, making sure their groins were a safe distance apart. "Explain. Now."

"Okay so basically it turns out that it wasn't Moran that disappeared; it was the entire car, which means that it's hidden in some sort of secret space in between stations. This is super shady because today is Remember Remember Explodey Explodey Day and Moran is a government guy."

John's eyes glazed over as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard. "You know what? I'm gonna trust you. Just...Just lead the way."

"To the train station!" Sherlock leapt out the window.

-The Train Station-

They broke into the tube tunnel and started walking towards the hypothesized location of the missing train car.

"So let me get this straight," John said. "There's a huge bomb in this missing train car, and it's been parked underneath Parliament because a bunch of representatives are meeting there to vote on a bill. Did I get all that?"

"Yeah, except I never actually explained all that to you. How did you figure it out?"

"Plot convenience?"

"Sure." Sherlock jumped down onto the tracks, nearly stepping on the rails.

"Uh, Sherlock, aren't those live?"

"Yeah, but it's perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rai-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i11101010100101101000100101" Sherlock collapsed to the ground, twitching and smoking after stepping on one of the rails.

John took a fire extinguisher from one of the walls and blew some foam onto Sherlock. "Yep. Perfectly safe."

After reviving Sherlock, they continued on and eventually found the train car. They went inside and searched for bombs.

"Found one!" Sherlock lifted up the seat cushion, revealing a moderately large bomb underneath.

John cocked his head. "Do you hear that?"

"Yes, it sounds like...a mysterious ticking noise…"

They opened up one of the floor panels and found a really big bomb. The timer on it was stuck at 2:30.

"We should call bomb disposal," John said. "Before the timer—"

The whole compartment lit up and the timer started to count down.

"Motherfucker."

"Uh oh," Sherlock said at the same time.

John looked up. "You know how to defuse a bomb, right?"

"I thought _you_ knew how to defuse a bomb!"

"Why would I know that, I was a goddamn doctor in the army, not a bomb disposal person! Forget it. Just use your mind palace, maybe you've got some information there."

"Okay." Sherlock put his hands on his temples and searched his mind palace. "Um….um….."

"Think!"

"I'm thinking!"

"Think harder! I'll suck your dick if you find the answer!"

Sherlock thought really, really, hard. Finally he came out of his mind palace with a gasp. "I'm sorry. I don't have the answer."

"Oh my god." John turned away, shaking his head.

"Wait...did you really say you'd suck my dick?"

John blushed. "I meant...You know what? Fuck it. If this is our last…" He checked the timer. "Minute and twenty nine seconds on earth, I'll at least be able to cross one thing on my bucket list. Come here."

Hardly able to believe his ears, Sherlock ran towards John. And tripped over the huge bomb. The timer beeped and started counting down twice as fast.

"NO!"

John gave a shaky sigh, preparing for death. "Well, at least there's time to tell you this: I forgive you for faking your death and all the other ridiculous shit you've done in the time I have known you. You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. So of course I forgive you."

Sherlock felt tears fill his eyes. "John…"

The bomb went off.

**THE END**

**Just kidding! I thought this would be a fun place to end the chapter. You'll find that in next ****chapter, things are a little...off. **

**By the way, happy 100 reviews and (late) two year anniversary of this story! Thanks to everyone who has supported me so far. I hope you guys are still enjoying this fic.**

**Please leave a comment letting me know what you think. It helps me out a lot!**


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

"AAAHHHHHHHH!" John stopped screaming when he realized he wasn't being blown to hell by a bomb. He stood up and looked around.

"I see you've finally woken up," Sherlock said.

John looked around. They were in a helicopter, the front window revealing a rainy and cloudy atmosphere. "Where the hell are we?"

"A helicopter."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock." John felt a strange shudder pass through him as he uttered the phrase. "Where is the helicopter?"

"Over the East European Sea. It appears the explosion was so strong that we actually traveled in time and ended up switching places with our season four counterparts. We're going to Sherrinford right now to meet my psychotic sister."

John blinked. "Okay. Just give me a moment to process this."

"No time. Let's jump!" Sherlock leaped out of the helicopter, and of course John had no choice but to follow.

They landed on the roof of a small fishing boat. Two yellow-coated fishermen came out and looked up at the roof.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them asked.

"I'm a pirate!" Sherlock jumped off the roof, his coat floofing out.

The scene faded to black, and the next thing John knew, they were on an island.

"None of this makes any fucking sense," he said to himself.

"Of course it doesn't. This is season four!" Sherlock said.

"I have to concur," said a new voice.

John turned and saw a really ugly fisherman. Further inspection revealed that it was just Mycroft with a beard and a fisherman's hat. "When the fuck did you get here?"

"I've always been here."

"Okay here's the plan," Sherlock said. "We climb up the sides of the prison, find a vent big enough to crawl through, then make our way into Syrup's cell."

"Prison?" John looked up and for the first time spotted the massive cinderblock building that took up most of the island. "Oh. That prison."

-A Few Minutes Later-

"I...hate...season...four…" John grumbled, struggling to climb the sheer walls of the prison.

"Keep up John!" Sherlock was easily scaling the walls because he was gay. Mycroft had given up immediately and convinced his evil counterpart Mark Gatiss to simply write him into the prison.

Eventually they made it onto the roof.

John looked around. "All right, how are we actually supposed to get inside? As far as I can tell, this whole roof is just flat cement."

"That's why I brought shovels."

Sherlock had an easy time digging through the cement roof because he was gay. Once he made a sizeable opening, they dropped down into what seemed to be a prison cell.

On the other side of a glass wall stood a woman who looked the girl from The Ring had grown up.

Sherlock waved. "Eurasia! My sister who I somehow forgot about!"

John looked back and forth between the two of them. "Wait, what?"

Eurus tilted her head creepily. "Have you ever had sex?"

The smile dropped from Sherlock's face. "Okay, this is getting weird, goodbye."

John and Sherlock sprinted out of the room.

"How do we get back to our timeline?" John asked as they ran.

"Um…" Sherlock thought. "Well, if it was an explosion that got us here…" He stopped next to the boiler room door, a maniacal glint coming into his eye.

"NO." John pulled his arm and dragged him away from the door. "There has to be another way, something _less_ damaging."

Sherlock concentrated for a moment, then lit a sparkler and started moving it in circles.

"The fuck are you doing?"

He dropped his hands once nothing happened. "I thought since it worked in that other movie I was in…"

John threw up his hands. "Then I guess we're screwed."

Sherlock turned and took John's face in his hands. "John. No matter what happens, I want you to know, I…"

John's eyes were wide. "What?"

"I still think we should go with the explosion idea." Sherlock took a grenade from his pocket, threw it into the boiler room, and took cover.

After five minutes of nothing happening, they looked up.

"Sherlock, did you remember to take the pin out of the grenade before you threw it?"

"Oh." Sherlock did the walk of shame into the boiler room, took the pin out of the grenade, and took cover again.

The grenade went off, tearing through the metal tanks of hot gas and water and causing a massive combustion of heat and light. Basically everything exploded.

When John and Sherlock came to, they found themselves in a dark tunnel.

"We're back!" John said.

"But where's the train car?" Sherlock looked around and spotted four giant, horrifying anthropomorphic turtles slowly approaching them. "John. Don't move."

"Hey, are you the new pizza guys?" one of the turtles asked.

"AAAHHHHHHHH!" They both screamed. Sherlock set off another grenade.

And at last they were back in their present time and place.

John looked down. "Hey, why is the bomb still intact?" The timer had also stopped at 4:20.

"Plot convenience?"

"Sure."

-221b, The Next Day-

Sherlock, John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Golem were hanging out in the flat and celebrating Sherlock's official return from the dead. Outside, the buzz of reporters could be heard.

"So we've decided to have the wedding in May," Mary was saying to Mrs Hudson.

"Wait, what wedding?" John asked.

"_Our_ wedding, dear," Mary said.

"Oh. Right."

Just then, Molly walked in with her new boyfriend Tom.

"Hey, everyone! This is Tom!"

John looked over at Tom, mouth open to say hello, but all that came out was a weird high pitched laugh. Tom was dressed in a black coat with a blue scarf and he had sharp cheekbones and dark curly hair that highly resembled a certain gay detective.

Sherlock walked over and shook Tom's hand. "You must be Molly's fiance."

Lestrade woke up from another one of his power naps. He blinked, thinking he was seeing double. "Who're you?"

Molly beamed. "This is my fiance! I've moved on from my pining for Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson nodded and took a long swig of champagne.

"So why does your new fiance look exactly like Sherlock?" asked Golem, who was being drunk and obvious.

"Let's go," Sherlock grabbed John and pulled him out the door to avoid further awkwardness. "I have to go talk to the press anyway."

"Don't pretend that you're not enjoying this," John said. "Being Not Dead and all that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't even know what that's supposed to mean." He started walking down the stairs, lost his balance, and tumbled the rest of the way down. He landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, arms and legs sticking out at odd angles. "Ow."

John chuckled to himself. "It's good to be back."

**I decided to take this chapter on a slightly new track just for fun. And that was just a taste of what I have planned for season 4...**

**But in the more immediate future is the wedding episode, ****which will be interesting given all the time jumps. I'll figure something out.**

**Thanks for reading and please leave a comment letting me know what you think, it helps me out a lot!**


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

Lestrade and Donovan were heading into a bank, ready to catch some bad guys. All the exits were covered and the security system had been un-hacked.

"Well, this is finally it," Donovan said. "We've been chasing these guys for over a year and we finally have them cornered. This is your big moment, Greg. I just hope nothing surprising happens to ruin—"

Lestrade's phone went off with a text alert.

"Greg, are you going to get that?"

No response.

Donovan sighed. Her coworker was doing his classic 'nap walk', a name that is fairly self-explanatory. She smacked him upside the head. "Greg!"

"Huh?" Lestrade woke up and almost fell over.

"Your phone."

The phone gave another buzz. Lestrade took it out of his pocket and looked at it. "What does this say?"

"You're holding it upside down."

"Oh." Greg read his most recent messages, all of which were part of a string of texts from Sherlock.

_Help._

_Please._

_Baker Street. Now._

_Help me Gregggggggggggggg_

_pleass eGr;;eg II need heellp_

_g reg pls ttthis iis the worst_

"Uh oh," Lestrade said. "I gotta go."

"What?" Donovan said. "But aren't you going to make the arrest?"

"Nah you can do it." Lestrade made a call on his phone. "I need maximum backup at Baker Street, now!" He then set off for Sherlock's flat at his most urgent pace: a light jog.

Five hours later he arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock was lying face down on the floor, letting out one continuous groan.

"Same, I'm tired." Lestrade laid down on the floor next to Sherlock. He turned his head slightly so he could look at him. "What about those texts you sent?"

Not stopping his groan, Sherlock pushed a book towards Lestrade. The title read, _How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech_.

Outside, ambulance sirens and helicopter whirring grew louder.

-Later-

Mrs. Hudson walked out of 221a, ready to bring Sherlock his morning tea. She could hear Numb by Linkin Park blasting from the flat upstairs. When she walked in Sherlock quickly switched it to a violin waltz.

"What was that horrible music?" she asked, setting the tea down.

"John and Mary's wedding music," Sherlock said, gesturing to the radio. "Obviously."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and sat down in John's red chair. "Ah, I remember my own wedding. My best friend Margaret was my chief bridesmaid. She cried the whole day, saying 'It's the end of an era.' That was minutes before the Great Happening of '52. Thankfully I'd brought one of those tiny revolvers in my dress so I was able to hold Them off. Even got one of their ships. One of Them brought down a part of the roof and killed half the guests, so that was a bit of a downer. And Margaret ended up leaving the wedding early after that! I mean, who _does_ that?"

"Uh huh." Sherlock was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. A bit of drool fell from his mouth.

Mrs Hudson sighed and finished reminiscing. "Well, you'd better go get ready." She stood up and left.

-The Wedding-

John, Mary, Sherlock, and everyone else exited the church after the marriage ceremony. The bells were ringing, there was confetti, birds were singing, etc.

"Congratulations!" said the photographer. "Allow me to take a picture of the newlyweds!" he aimed the camera at Sherlock and John.

"Uh, actually, I got married to her…" John gestured to Mary.

"That sounds fake as fuck but okay." The photographer adjusted his camera.

As Sherlock moved out of the way, Mary's chief bridesmaid sidled up to him. "The famous Mr. Holmes! I'm very pleased to meet you. But no sex, okay?"

A muscle in Sherlock's neck twitched. "O-Okay."

-Later-

John and Mary were greeting guests by the entrance to the reception building. A guy named David walked up.

"David!" Mary said happily, reaching out to hug him.

He gave her an awkward handshake-sidestep combo and turned to John. "Hi."

"Uh," Mary shook off the awkward moment. "David, this is Sherlock."

A bead of sweat rolled down David's neck. "Yeah, we've met."

-Flashback to 221b-

"So, you went out with Mary for two years, is that correct?" Sherlock asked David from across the table.

"Well, yeah, but we're just good friends now."

"Is that a fact?" Sherlock adjusted a large stack of papers in front of him and cleared his throat. "Whenever she tweets, you respond within five minutes regardless of time or current location, suggesting you have her on text alert. In all your Facebook photographs of the happy couple, Mary takes centre frame whereas John is always partly or entirely excluded. You volunteered to be a shoulder to cry on on no less than three separate occasions. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

David sighed. "Is that why you're wearing that stupid judge's wig? Am I on trial or something?"

"My wig isn't stupid!" Sherlock said, adjusting his curly white wig. "You know what?" He banged his gavel on the table, barely missing David's fingers. "I think from now on we'll downgrade you to 'casual acquaintance.' No more than three planned social encounters a year, and always in John's presence."

David stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. "They were right about you. You're a bloody psychopath."

"High functioning sociopath. With your number." He dabbed.

-Back in the Present-

David quickly walked into the building.

The next people to greet the married couple were a woman and her little kid. The kid ran up to Sherlock and gave him a big hug.

"Oh, have you two met already?" Mary asked.

"Yeah," said Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me this is leading to another flashback seque—"

-Flashback to 221b-

"You're gonna have to wear a suit and smile at people," Sherlock was saying to the little boy, whose name was Archie.

"Why?" Archie pouted.

"Because grown-ups like that sort of thing."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I'll ask one."

Bored with the subject, Archie moved on to a new topic. "You're a detective, right?"

"Yeah."

"Have you solved any murders?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Can I see?"

"Sure." Sherlock brought over his laptop and opened it, revealing the gay porn that was still on the screen. "OH NO!" He shoved his hand over Archie's eyes. "Look away small child!"

-Back in the Present-

"—nce," John finished.

When Sherlock tried to pull away from the hug, Archie did not let go.

"You got the goods?" the boy whispered.

Sherlock sighed and slipped him a bag of Sour Patch Kids.

Archie let go and gave the man a cheery smile. "Thanks, mister!"

-Later-

Eventually everyone got into the building and they started doing wedding stuff. The photographer snapped some pretty sick photos, including Molly and her boyfriend Snerlock, Mrs. Hudson with a poorly-hidden AK-47 hidden under her dress, and a picture of Greg napping beside forty empty whisky glasses.

John and Mary were standing together and talking...sort of.

"I'm starving," Mary said. "I had to lose so much weight to get into this dress, haha!"

"That's cool," John said. Then he caught sight of the man who had just walked in and his eyes widened. "Oh my god."

He walked over to the man and they saluted each other. Then bowed. Then shook hands. Then high-fived.

Sherlock walked over to stand beside Mary, seething with jealousy. "So that's Major Sholto."

"Yup. Aren't they such good friends?" Mary smiled at the two men, who were now just staring at each other. Careless Whispers played in the background.

"If John likes him so much, how come he's never mentioned him to me?"

"Really? John talks to me about him all the time," Mary said. "He says Sholto is the most unsociable man he's ever met."

"The _most unsociable_?" Sherlock's vampire pale face turned red. "Whatever. I'm gonna go listen to Taylor Swift in the bathroom and cry."

He stalked away and hid in one of the bathroom stalls. He took out his phone and dialed Mycroft's number.

"Hello, Mycroft? I need to—" Sherlock was cut off by an agonized scream. "Uh, are you okay?" He heard the whirring of the treadmill in the background. "Ah, that explains it."

"Just filing papers." Mycroft grabbed his sippy cup of orange juice and settled into an armchair. "So, today is the big day."

"What big day?" Sherlock grumbled.

"John and Mary finally settling into domestic bliss. I suppose I'll be seeing more of you from now on, like old times."

"You know what? I didn't need to call you." Sherlock started to hang up, but Mycroft said:

"Do you remember Redbeard, Sherlock?"

"You mean my childhood friend who went missing and subsequently became a memory of my nonexistent dead dog? No."

"Enjoy getting involved, Sherlock." A loud explosion was heard on the other end, and Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock let out a long groan and started banging his head against the wall of the bathroom stall.

**i hate this fucking website. Apparently when i first posted this chapter the format fucked beyond belief, for no reason. Hopefully it's fixed this time. Thanks a bunch to Unipugs at 221b for pointing this out. Please feel free to leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic!**


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

After the wedding dinner everyone settled down as Sherlock stood up to give his best man speech.

"Okay, so uh, guys…" He cleared his throat. Everyone stared at him. "Ladies and gentlemen...uh...it's…"

John looked over at Molly and saw her shaking her head quietly to herself. "Oh no, not another—"

-Flashback Sequence-

Molly was working in the lab with a phone propped between her shoulder and ear. "Greg," she said into the phone, "I just had a thought."

"Hello?"

"Yeah, it's me, Molly. Look, if John asks Sherlock to be his best man, he'll have to make a speech. In front of people."

Silence issued from the other end of the line.

"I can't tell if you're contemplating the horrors of this idea or if you've just fell asleep again."

"Hi, this is Greg. I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message."

"...Okay, it was neither, I guess." She hung up and called Mrs. Hudson. Molly explained the problem, then added, "But it's not just the speech. There's also the telegrams."

Moments later, John walked into 221a to find Mrs Hudson hysterically laughing. "Uh, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Mrs Hudson managed between bursts of hysterical laughter. "It's just—the telegrams, hahahahaha!"

"Uh...okay."

-End Flashback-

John put his face in his hands, realizing. "Oh...the telegrams."

Farther down the table, Sherlock had given up addressing the audience and was trying to read the telegrams sent to the newlyweds. He pulled a bunch of them from his coat. "Okay, let me just—fuck," he dropped the handful and scattered them all over the table. One landed on a candle and the fire spread through the flammable material, soon catching the tablecloth on fire. "All right, I can…" Sherlock poured his champagne on the fire but the flammable liquid only caused the fire to spread. "Fuck fuck fuck—"

Once that little fiasco was resolved, Sherlock held up the unburnt telegrams to read. "To Mr and Mrs Watson. So sorry I'm unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford."

Mary turned to John and whispered, "Why couldn't Mike come?"

John shrugged. "He said he was busy."

-Mike Stamford's House-

"It doesn't make any sense," Mike grumbled as he angrily scrolled through tumblr. "I set John and Sherlock up so they would marry each other! This wedding is BULLSHIT!" He threw his Johnlock Fanzine across the room.

-Back at the Wedding-

"Dear John and Mary," Sherlock read. "Congratulations on—wait, this one was typed in Comic Sans. I'm not reading it." He tossed it away, and Janine narrowly saved it from falling into another candle.

"To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…" Sherlock frowned and held the card closer to his face. "...covfefe."

A couple of guests chuckled.

"Anyway, the rest of the telegrams were lost in the fire so I guess we should move onto the speech now." Sherlock cleared his throat. "When John asked me to be his best man, I was confused."

-Flashback to 221b-

John walked into the kitchen and found Sherlock blowtorching an eyeball.

"Hi."

"AH!" The eyeball fell into Sherlock's coffee mug. "Uh, John, hi." Sherlock tried to do a casual pose against the table. "What's up?"

John decided to ignore his abnormal behaviour (abnormal for Sherlock, at least). "I need a best man."

"Don't we all…" Sherlock nodded and looked pensively out the window.

"Nope, just people who get married," John said. "So, will you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Will you be my best man?"

"Aren't you supposed to get down on one knee when you ask?"

"No!" John's face turned red. "Look, I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world. That happens to be Mary Morstan and you."

Sherlock stared at him blankly. A slight whirring sound came from the back of his head, like a computer with 57 tabs and Photoshop open.

"Uh, Sherlock? You okay?"

Steam began to leak from one ear.

"_System failure. Manual reboot required."_

John shrugged. This wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened with Sherlock. "Okay, how do I reboot him?"

"_Penile stimulation required._"

-Back to the Present-

"In the end, John managed to restore my hard drive. I was ultimately surprised though, because I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest, kindest, sexiest, and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of fu—knowing."

A few of the guests dabbed at their eyes. Another few just dabbed.

Sherlock turned to John. "I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your bone—friendship." He looked at Mary. "Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved—in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

John turned to Mary. "If I try to fu—hug him, stop me."

She smiled. "Certainly not."

"Anyway, now let's move on to…" Sherlock trailed off as he realized most of the guests were either crying or dabbing. "Uh, you guys okay?" He turned to John. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't." John stood up and gave Sherlock a nice, awkward side hug. A bunch of TJLC fans screamed from where they were watching through the window.

"Your belt is poking me," Sherlock said.

John quickly sat down again.

"Anyway, let's talk about some funny stories about John. For that we need to look no further than John's blog, where he's chronicled all of our cases and also writes Gossip Girl theories on the side." He pulled out his phone and looked at the most recent cases. "The Hollow Client...The Poison Giant...The Meaty Mouthful...The Big Succ…You get the point. I could go into detail but we have people under eighteen here so I think I'll stick to one special case: The Bloody Guardsman."

"Sounds pretty PG," Mrs Hudson muttered.

-ANOTHER flashback-

Sherlock stood before an array of papers pinned to the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. "Now, it's all coming together…Once I have completed these plans, I will be unstoppable!"

"I'm sure it will be," Mary said from where she was sitting next to a 3D model of the reception venue. "Now, where should we put John's cousin? Top table?"

Sherlock took one look at the envelope and said, "No, she hates you."

"Oh. Who else hates me?"

He handed her a long list of names.

"Great."

"That's page one, by the way. Also, why do so many people hate you? You're nice, kind, slightly murderous, likeable, creative, and able to jump in front of bullets at amazing speeds."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"I am here," John said, since he liked to be included.

"Let's move on to serviettes." Sherlock pulled out a tray with two different styles of folded napkins. "Which one do you like better? Christmas tree or Danny Devito's head?"

Mary forced a smile. "They're both...nice." She stood up, taking her phone out. "Ring ring! Sorry, I have to get this." She began walking into the kitchen. "Hi, Beth."

John looked up, recognizing the code. "If it's Beth calling, then it's probably for me too." He followed Mary into the kitchen.

"He's stressed about the wedding," Mary told him when they were out of earshot. "You should take him out on a case to help him relax."

"All right," John said. "I don't see what he's so worried about. I mean, we're still gonna do stuff together after the wedding."

"Sure you are." She turned him around and pushed him back into the living room.

John immediately noticed the lights were dimmed. Sherlock had created several more Danny Devito serviettes and had lit a couple candles. He had his head bowed and was muttering quietly.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Round be thy body, fluffy be thy hair—" He turned around. "John! I didn't see you there!"

"...Yeah. Listen, I'm really sick of this wedding stuff, I need to get out of the house for a while. So…" John held his phone out to Sherlock. "Pick a case. Please."

"All right. Anything for you, old sport." He missed John's confused look as he began scrolling through the cases. Suddenly he grinned very, very widely. It was kind of creepy. "Found one."

John looked at the phone and sighed. "Soldiers, huh?"

"Yes, it's a very interesting and fascinating case. Let's go!"

**So school is officially out for me and I finally graduated from high school! I'll definitely have more time to write for the next few months. Also, apologies for all the dick jokes in this chapter. Next one probably won't be much better though. As always thanks for ****reading**** and feel free to leave a comment!**


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

John and Sherlock were at the front door of the British Guard Place.

"We're here to see Private Stephen Bainbridge," John said.

"He's on duty right now," said the Duty Sergeant. "But he'll be free in an hour."

"Oh no," Sherlock said. "A _whole_ hour of waiting here. Whatever shall we do?"

-Later-

John and Sherlock were sitting on a bench across the street from the guard place. Sherlock was scanning the area with binoculars.

"Found any clues, yet?" John asked.

"What clues?" Sherlock replied. "I'm just looking at…" The binoculars went still, and Sherlock zoomed in. "Ohhh yeah…"

"You are such a creep." John snatched the binoculars away.

"So…" Sherlock stretched his arms across the back of the bench. "Who is this Sholto guy anyway? I saw him on the guest list but I've never heard about him."

"He was my commander while I was in the army."

"Isn't he a war hero?"

"Not to everyone. He led a team of crows into battle."

"Why would people like that? That's cool as fuck!"

John sighed. "Crows are new recruits. But something went wrong and they all died. Only Sholto survived. The press and all the families of the deceased hated him."

"Well, that sucks."

"Moving on, I want to talk to you about the wedding. I want you to know it won't change anything. You and I will still do stuff like old times, okay?"

"Sure."

"You see, the thing about Mary is, she has completely turned my life around. Well, actually, two people have done that in the past few years. And the other one is…" He turned to Sherlock, but the gay had disappeared. "A complete dickhead."

Sherlock was busy sneaking into the building. He crept up a flight of stairs and peeked through a door. Inside, a bunch of soldiers were playing Shirtless Ping Pong, their muscular chests glistening with sweat as they pounded the balls across the table.

"Hey guys," said one of them. "Should we play another round of Wrestling With Only Our Boxers On?"

-Meanwhile-

John had been called in to talk with one of the majors.

"So what is this about?" the major asked. "What do you want with Private Bainbridge?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It's a private matter," John said.

"Bullshit. Nothing's private when it comes to my men."

"This is a legitimate inquiry."

"Oh, really? Are you from the press or something? Nosing around to get a good story?"

John pulled out his military license. "Sir, I'm Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

The major leaned back, unimpressed. "Retired. You could be a used car salesman now, for all I know."

John slammed his hand onto the table. "Listen, bitch. You're not the first dicky major I've had to deal with. So don't think you can bully me into—"

The sergeant from before walked in. "Sir, Bainbridge is dead."

The dicky major ran into the bathroom, where Bainbridge was lying in a pool of blood. John followed him.

"Let me examine him," John said. "I'm a doctor."

"Like hell you are. Arrest him!"

The sergeant grabbed John's arm. A few seconds later, another sergeant came in, holding Sherlock's arm.

"Sir, I found this one snooping around, and…" He grimaced. "Other things."

"You didn't even let me zip up my pants!" Sherlock complained.

"Let me examine the body!" John snapped at the major. "The plot demands it!"

The major sighed. "Oh, all right."

John ran over and started examining the wound on Bainbridge's abdomen. Meanwhile Sherlock was looking at the shower stall.

"Man stabbed to death. No murder weapon. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of here," he analyzed quietly.

"Sherlock." John tilted Bainbridge's head. "He's still breathing. Give me your scarf!"

"Uh, okay." Sherlock removed his scarf and handed it to John.

"Call an ambulance!" John shouted to the sergeant, and pressed the scarf to the wound. "Nurse, put pressure here."

Sherlock paused in the middle of taking off the rest of his clothes. "Nurse?"

"Yeah, I'm making do. Now keep putting pressure on that wound!"

-End Flashback-

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Would anyone like to take a guess?" Sherlock pointed at Greg, who was dozing at one of the front tables. "Scotland Yard. Have you got a theory?"

"Snzzzzzz…."

Mrs. Hudson nudged him with the butt of her concealed gun, waking him up.

"Huh? Oh, I guess someone could have launched it...from a vent, or something. Or, like, a small person could have crawled under easily. So...we're looking for a dwarf."

"Dwarves?" Sherlock snarled in a disturbingly reptilian voice, then returned to normal. "Those are both stupid theories." But Greg had already fallen back asleep.

Tom raised his hand and stood up. "He stabbed himself with a blade made of compacted bone, which broke after he stabbed himself. Like a meat dagger."

"...No." Sherlock turned to the rest of the crowd. "There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson's ass looked amazing as he was kneeling down saving that man's life. I wish you all could have been there."

He stared into space for several seconds, then continued, "Let's move on to embarrassing stories now."

-BackFlash-

Sherlock and Molly were in the lab together.

"I need your help with John's stag night," Sherlock was saying. "I don't want to get too terribly drunk, because that would ruin the fun. Of course, I could calculate everything myself, but I'm thinking you have more practical experience."

Molly narrowed her eyes. "What, are you saying I'm a drunk?"

"N-No!" Sherlock held up his hands defensively. "You know what? I'm gonna change the subject now. How's Torvald doing?"

"You mean Tom?" Molly smiled. "He's great. Not a sociopath at all. And we've been having lots of sex."

Sherlock's friendly smile froze in place. "That's...nice," he ground out. He handed Molly a folder. "Here is all of John's data, and mine."

Molly opened a folder and frowned at a picture of the Vitruvian man with John's face glued on it. She flipped to the next page. "This is all just Johnlock fanart."

"W-Wrong folder!" Sherlock quickly swapped it for an identical one.

-First Bar-

Sherlock walked up to the counter. "Two beers, please."

"Pints?" asked the bartender.

Sherlock set two graduated cylinders onto the bar. "Four hundred and forty three point seven millimeters."

The bartender narrowed his eyes and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his coat, pulling him half across the countertop. "Listen up, weenie. This is a _bar_, not a science lab for little twinks like you. Here we sell pints, half pints, and flaming double shot tequila nightmares. Pick one."

A minute later, Sherlock set both graduated cylinders on the table in front of John. "Drink up!"

John raised an eyebrow at the unconventional container. "All right." He took a sip and immediately spat it out. "This isn't beer!"

Sherlock frowned. "The guy wouldn't let me get it from the counter so I filled these up at the soft drink fountain. The label _said_ root beer…"

"Root beer is soda, dumbass!"

The detective crossed his arms and pouted. "Well, how was I supposed to know? I only drink milk and apple juice."

**I thought this constant flashing back and forward would be harder to write, but I think I'm doing a pretty good job so far. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! ****Feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you**** think. I really appreciate it.**


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

-Bar Number Three-

John and Sherlock were feeling the buzz, grooving to the music that was playing in the bar.

"Ready for the mosh pit, shaka brah," Sherlock said.

-Bar Number Five-

"How much alcohol did I ask for again?" Sherlock mumbled, squinting at his graduated cylinders.

"I dunno, the numbers have turned into little speckies," John replied.

-Bar Number Seven-

While Sherlock wasn't looking, John spiked both of their graduated cylinders with what he thought was whiskey.

-Bar Number Eight-

"YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Sherlock was riding a mechanical bull, waving his black coat around wildly as the crowd around him cheered. John had a heart emoji face.

At least, that was what he was hallucinating as he stumbled past the bar, tripping over a stool and nearly upending it.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" the man on the stool snapped. "I nearly dropped my drink in that ashtray."

"Ashtray?" Sherlock straightened up. "Yoou ain't doon't know nhoni abuot ash." He fell onto the floor. "Hrhmshhmm..."

-221b-

John and Sherlock were lying together on the stairs.

"I have an irnntnoaaitel reuptation," Sherlock said. He turned to John. "Do _you_ have an ninternational repoitautn?"

John put all of his mental faculties to the task of speaking clearly, and ended up with, "No, I don't have an nnietratiownal reptutation."

"And I c'atn even rembemer what for." He shifted slightly, making John grunt. "Sss...se...imtghnim...croeor other…"

Mrs Hudson came out of her apartment with a bag of trash in one hand. She caught sight of them tangled up on the stairs and marched over. "Boys! I very explicitly made it clear that you were to have no sex on the ground floor!" She began beating them with the trash bag.

-Upstairs-

The two had finally made it up the stairs and onto their respective armchairs (the whole ordeal had been sad to watch but highly entertaining as well. Mrs Hudson recorded the whole thing, laughing all the while).

Now they had more alcohol at hand and were each wearing a piece of white paper with a name written on it. Sherlock's said "Ehsrlolck Homsm" and John's said "Anodmna".

"Am I a vegetable?" John asked.

"No."

"Your turn."

"Am I human?"

"Sometimes."

"Am I a man?"

"Yeh."

-A Few Minutes Later-

Sherlock looked up from where he had been entering John's answers into Akinator. "Am I Vladmir Putin?"

John giggled. "No…" He leaned forward and lost his balance. "Woooahhhh!" He landed on his knees in front of Sherlock's chair.

"Your turn," Sherlock said.

"Am I a woman?"

"God I hope not." He leaned forward, and John did the same, and just as they were about to kiss—

Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Boys, you have a client."

"FUCK!"

-Later-

John and Sherlock sat on the sofa, while the client sat in a chair across from them.

"I went out with this man. He was _so _nice," the client said, her voice tearful. "I thought we had something special...that he would at least call me again. At least tell to me we were finished. But…" She trailed off and sniffled. "He never said a word to me afterwards. I even went to his flat. But there was no sign of him. Mister Holmes, I think I had dinner with a ghost."

Sherlock grunted and sat up from where he had been dozing off. "Miss me with that het shit," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, what?"

John was talking in his sleep. "Yeah, I'm there if you want it. Two number fives. Yeaaaahhhh."

"Let's go, John," Sherlock tried to stand up off the couch. "Wheeeee!" He fell back onto it.

-The Apartment-

After another sad display of John and Sherlock taking way longer than they should have to move from Point A to Point B, they had followed the client to the supposed ghost's apartment.

"So, look around. Let me know if you see any clues." The client, named Tessa, stood next to the landlord, who was watching the two men move around the living room with a disturbed expression.

John leaned against a pillar in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. Sherlock was stumbling around the room, looking for "clues" and muttering "Fresh oats" under his breath.

He deduced several items: a table, a chair, a thing, a death, wood? and Egg.

Feeling accomplished at his progress so far, he turned to Tessa. "I'm js't gonnya whip this out."

Tessa cringed, but Sherlock had only pulled his magnifier out of his pocket. He knelt down on the floor to inspect the carpet, and was soon ass-up on the floor, snoring into the floor.

John stared at his ass. "Magnificent."

The landlord, dumb as he was, finally realized the two of them were drunk. "I'm calling the police," he said, going to remove Sherlock from the floor.

"No, no," Tessa said, somehow still having faith in the two drunk men. "This is a famous detective. It's Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson."

"Oi!" The detective cried as he was roughly picked up. "Whart d'ouy think you're din? Do't compromise the integrity of htchhh—" He puked like a baby onto the rug.

"Crime scene!" John finished for him proudly. He held up a hand to high-five Tessa, but she ignored him. "Sad."

-Jail Cell-

Greg walked into the cell where John and Sherlock were passed out, and began to bang two pans together. "Wakey wakey!"

Both men screamed in agony at the intense level of noise entering their alcohol-soaked brains.

Lestrade chuckled. "You two are weaklings. My wife does that every morning and it's never enough to wake me from my slumber."

"When did you become such a sadist?" Sherlock gasped, checking his ears to see if they were bleeding.

"I wish for death," John groaned, standing up. He muscled through the intense pain in his cranium and staggered out of the cell.

"Taxi's waiting outside," Lestrade said. "I managed to square things with the desk sergeant."

Sherlock tumbled off of the cot at the back of the cell and began crawling towards the door, his useless legs dragging behind him. "Waaater…" he rasped.

-221a-

"I thought I'd make your favorite meal, just one last time," Mrs Hudson said, putting a plate of food in front of John.

"Oh, don't make it sound so final."

She sat down across from John and looked at him gravely. "Well, marriage changes everything."

"Does it?"

Mrs Hudson nodded. "You'll start meeting new people, just because you're a couple, and soon your old friends will slip away. Soon you'll move to Florida, ready to start a quiet life in a retirement community, but the next thing you know you're living in an abandoned bunker under a parking garage in Miami, running a drug cartel with your husband. You'll think you have things under control, but when you find out about the other women your husband's been seeing, you'll begin to bend under the pressure. By the time five years have gone by, you'll be sleeping with a gun under your pillow, glaring at the window you drew in chalk on one wall because there are no real windows underground, as you listen to the sickening sound of your husband fucking the next door neighbor in the room across the hall. Just when you've had enough of it, he'll make it up to you, taking you to the top of the parking garage and nu—"

John held up a finger, stopping her tirade. "You know what? I think I hear Sherlock upstairs. I'm just gonna…" He stood up, breakfast untouched, and walked out of 221a, breaking into a sprint as soon as he was out of Mrs Hudson's line of sight.

**I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. And maybe got too carried away with the drunk text generator. Thanks for reading, and as always, leave a comment letting me know what you thought, or if you had a favorite part. It means a lot to me!**


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

Sherlock quickly closed his gay porn tab as John walked in. "Hey. I was just working on the case that we had last night."

"You mean the one we royally screwed up?"

"Yup." Sherlock opened up a blog called IDatedAGhost dot com. "Let's go to my mind palace!" He grabbed John's hand and jumped inside the computer screen.

They ended up in a large council chamber. About fifty women were seated, while John and Sherlock stood at the front of the room.

"Wait, your mind palace is inside the computer?" John asked.

"No, silly. There are all the women who have posted on the blog. All the information presented in this room is from the computer, but it would be silly to show the audience just me scrolling through a blog, so we're in this fancy room."

John turned around. "Audience?" He turned back to Sherlock. "Wait, does that mean I'm _inside_ your head?"

"Quiet." He began scanning the room. He pointed at three women in rapid succession. "Not you. Not you. Not you." They all sat down.

This went on for quite a while, until only four remained. They introduced themselves as Gail, Charlotte, Robin, and Vicky.

John chuckled to himself. "I never thought I'd see the day when you decided to chat up a woman online."

Meanwhile, Mrs Hudson walked in to see Sherlock chatting with the women on four separate laptops, apparently not knowing how to make several tabs on one computer. She shook her head sadly and walked out.

Back in his mind palace, Sherlock was close to solving the mystery. "All four of these women dated the same man. They say he had different appearances, names, and addresses. If we look in the obituaries, we can see he's using the identities of recently deceased men."

"So he takes their personality for a day, and then he's gone," John said.

"Precisely. But why?" He turned to the four women, including Tessa who had decided to pop up in the chat. "There has to be a common factor. What are your jobs?"

"Gardener."

"Cook."

"Private nurse."

"I do security work."

"Maid."

Sherlock raised a finger. "Eurasia! They're all working for the same person." He quickly researched each woman to back up his claim. "...Nope. Apparently not. But they have to have something in common…" He looked around at the women again. "Security guard, gardener, cook, maid, private nurse. That spells SGCMP. That doesn't mean anything." He addressed them again. "Do you have a secret that you've never told anyone?"

"No," they all replied at once.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. "Of course. Everyone has secrets, and they all replied too quickly."

"Gotta go," Gail said.

"Yeah, me too," said Charlotte.

They began to walk to the back of the room in Sherlock's mind palace.

"Wait, this room isn't real, that door—" He was cut off as Gail opened the door and was sucked into the void, her scream faded away into nothingness. "Okay."

"Enjoy the wedding," Tessa said, and logged off the normal way.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and slammed all of the laptops closed. "Dammit. Why would he date all those women and never call them back?"

"You're missing the obvious," John said. "He's a man."

"But why would he change his identity?"

"Maybe he's married."

-Back in the Present-

"Mawwage," Sherlock said. When no one laughed at his reference, he cleared his throat and said, "Okay. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity, and instead of endless nights in watching the telly or going to barbecues with awful dreadful boring people he couldn't stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to...I actually forgot where I was going with this."

The guests stared blankly at him.

"Just know that while I may be able to solve a murder, it takes John Watson to save your life. He has done that for me so many times, in so many ways. Like the time I ate fourteen sticks of butter on a dare, and John was there to—"

"Skip to the next part," John said.

"Okay. Anyway, John's blog recounts the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story—a bigger adventure. Of course, that'll all be thrown to hell in Season 4, but let's focus on the now.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses in honor of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. They are both the reason why we are…" He trailed off, his expression blanking out.

John looked up at him. "Everything okay?"

"I think I'm having another flashback."

"OH FOR FU—"

-Flashback-

Sherlock and John were hanging out in 221b.

"Hey, wanna see how many cigarettes I can fit in my mouth?" Sherlock asked. "My record is fourteen."

"No," John said, not looking up from where he was typing for his blog.

"John H. Watson," Sherlock read over his shoulder. "What does the H stand for?"

"None of your business."

Sherlock pouted and dumped a pack of cigarettes into his palm. "You know, I can fit a _lot _of big things into my mouth.

-Present, Sherlock's mind palace-

"John hates his middle name. It was only after I stole his identity for one terrifically fun weekend that I was able to find it out," Sherlock said pensively. "So how could Tessa have known it when she introduced us to that landlord? There's only one other person I know who knows John's middle name."

Suddenly, Irene Adler's naked image appeared in Sherlock's mind palace. He flinched, one hand hovering over the 'Mind Palace Self-Destruct' button, but then he remembered the wedding invitation.

"That was the only time John's name has been made public. So Tessa must have seen the invitation. She also dated the Mayfly man. Those two occurrences _could _be a coincidence—"

A booming voice made Sherlock scream in surprise. "Oh, Sherlock. There are no such things as coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy."

He turned to see Mycroft's giant, shadowy head floating at the front of the room. "That's kind of a bullshit assumption to make."

"I'm a writer for the show, fuck youuuuu…" Mycroft's head ascended through the ceiling.

"So that must mean the Mayfly man is—"

-Back at the wedding-

"Here today," Sherlock finished. Everyone blinked at him, confused. "Okay, never mind that. Now we're on to…" He did some gay parkour over the table. "...part two of my amazing kickass speech. Let's talk about murder."

Lestrade grudgingly handed fifteen pounds to Mrs Hudson.

"So, who would go to a wedding?" Sherlock scanned the crowd, trying to identify a potential Mayfly Man. "Plenty of people, eh?" He sent a quick text to Greg, holding the phone behind his back.

Greg checked his phone to see a text that read: _Kudu USC olGtfodn_. Evidently Sherlock was unaware of his poor "typing-without-looking" skills.

"Well, I'm going to do what my mom always said I should do if I can't read an urgent text. Take a nap." Greg crawled under the table and fell asleep.

**I'm really hoping someone got that princess bride reference. Not really sure what my demographic is for this fic. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And thanks to all the nice comments I get for this ****fic. It really makes me happy. Feel free to drop some more!**


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

Sherlock was pacing around the room, struggling to identify the Mayfly Man out of all the male guests. "Too many, too many, too many!" He pointed at a couple men in rapid succession. "Not you, not you." He turned and pointed at John. "You. It's always you, John Watson."

John was offended. "Wait, are you saying _I'm _the Mayfly Man?"

"You keep me ri...wait, what?"

"What?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned back to the audience. "Okay, let's get back to the task at hand. Who would you kill at a wedding?"

"You seem to be a popular choice at the moment, dear," Mrs Hudson said.

Lestrade snored underneath the table.

"It would have to be someone hard to find," Sherlock said, ignoring them. "Someone who lives in a private, unknown location and doesn't often appear in public. Probably someone under threat as well." He remembered the women he had questioned: gardener, cook, maid, private nurse, security guard. He realized who it was. "Someone with a small household staff. But how could they commit such a murder?"

Sherlock folded a piece of paper into a paper airplane and threw it at Sholto. The man grunted as it hit him in the face. He opened it to read two words: _It's you_. Sherlock gave him a thumbs up and a sneaky wink. At least, Sherlock thought it was sneaky.

"Mister Holmes!" Archie jumped up and waved his hand in the air. "What about the invisible man?"

"Great novel. Really explores the social and intellectual issues facing African-Americans early in the twentieth century."

"No, dumbass! I'm talking about the invisible man with the invisible knife who killed the guardsman."

Sholto got up and left the room.

"Oh…" Sherlock's eyes widened. "So that time was the rehearsal. Whoever tried to kill Bainbridge was practicing for the real thing." He ran after Sholto.

John leapt up. "Uh, commercial break!" He sprinted after Sherlock. Mary followed him as well.

Sherlock tried the door handle to Sholto's room, but it was locked. He started banging on the door. "Major Sholto! Major Sholto!"

The major's grim voice came from within the room. "If someone's about to make an attempt on my...on my—_will you stop knocking?_"

Sherlock took his hand away from the door.

"Major, let us in," John said.

"No."

"Kick the door down," Mary said.

"I wouldn't advise that. I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes."

"I have an idea," Sherlock whispered, then ran down the hall and out of sight. A moment later, there was the painful sound of flesh colliding with metal.

"Nice try, Mister Holmes," Sholto said. "But I've heard of your window-zooming capabilities. It was only prudent to block the window in advance."

"You didn't have to put a fucking steel plate up!" A few minutes later, Sherlock limped back into the hallway. "Please, open the door so we can help you. I don't know how the murderer did it the first time, so I can't stop him."

"Then solve the case."

"I couldn't before, how could I do it now?"

"Because it matters now," Mary said.

"What? What? What does that even mean? John, get your wife under control!"

"My what?" John looked around, then looked at Mary. "Oh, her. But Mary is right. You have to solve the case. That's the only way we can save him!"

"Oh, fine…" Five seconds later, Sherlock solved the case. "I'm afraid you've already been stabbed several hours ago, Major. So was Bainbridge. It was through his belt."

"His belt?" John asked. "But wouldn't he still be able to feel it?"

"The belt was so tight that it cut off circulation, preventing the wound from actually bleeding until it's taken off."

John turned to the door. "Why the fuck is your belt so tight?"

Sholto sighed. "I wanted that snatched waist…" The doorknob clicked, and he opened the door. "I believe I am in need of medical attention."

-Later-

Sherlock was hanging out with Janine in one of the rooms off to the side. They were rehearsing the waltz they had to do later on.

"You're a brilliant dancer," said Janine.

"Yeah, I really love it. One day I hope I will find a case that will allow me to dance." Sherlock began pirouetting in the middle of the room.

"Wow, that's impressive. You know, I'd love to hear more about your detective stories sometime. The one you told me about the elephant was…" Janine trailed off as Sherlock continued to pirouette. "Wow. You sure can do that for a long time."

John, Lestrade, and the photographer walked into the room.

Sherlock quickly stopped dancing, and immediately tipped over and banged his head against the wall. "What's up, guys? I wasn't doing anything, nope, nothing to see here!"

"I brought the photographer, like you asked," Lestrade said.

"He's the murderer," Sherlock said, cuffing the photographer to a luggage trolley. "Jonathan Small, known to us as the Mayfly Man, came here as the photographer so he could take revenge on Sholto for the killing of his brother."

"And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for you meddling kids!" Jonathan grinned. "I've always wanted to say that."

-Back in the Venue-

John and Mary were slow dancing as Sherlock played a lovely rendition of Smash Mouth's "All Star" on his violin. When they were done, everyone clapped.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock said. "It's been a long day. We witnessed two people make vows that will last a lifetime. I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will. But here's the one promise I'll ever make: Mary and John, or Jary for short…" Sherlock shuddered. "Actually, I'm just gonna stick with Mary and John. I promise to always look after and protect the four of you. Sorry, I meant two. Miscounted."

John and Mary exchanged a glance.

"Anyway…" Sherlock cleared his throat. He waved at the guests. "Go! Dance! Get drunk!"

"Oh, What A Night" started to play.

Sherlock walked down to where John and Mary were standing. "Sorry, I made one last deduction that I wasn't expecting."

"And what was that?" Mary asked.

"You're pregnant."

Mary gasped. John's face drained of all color.

"With twins?" she asked.

"Uh, not as far as I can tell."

"But you said the four of us."

"Oh." Sherlock laughed. "Has John not told you about his tapeworm? We named it and everything. I have a theory that it can speak to us in Morse code, but—"

"Sherlock, shut up," John said, looking like he was about to be sick.

While no one was looking, Archie ran over and changed the song to "You Reposted in the Wrong Neighborhood". Golem began breakdancing wildly.

"Well…" There was an awkward pause.

Mary grabbed John's hand. "Let's go dance."

"Okay," John said with a thousand yard stare. "Let's go."

And Sherlock was left alone in the middle of the crowd, with no one to dance with. He went to go cry in his car while listening to Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" on repeat.

**Now that the dumbass wedding episode is out of the way, we can move on to the real fun! ****This episode was actually pretty hard to write, what with all the flashing back and forth.**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please drop me a comment letting me know what you think, or what your favorite part was. It helps me out a lot!**


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

"Mr Magnussen, please state your full name for the record."

"Charles Augustus Magnussen, or CAM for short. My Overwatch teammates also know me as Slippy69." The man raised a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face. The handkerchief, unfortunately, was also very sweaty.

The British government officials questioning Magnussen shifted uncomfortably. One of them got up and handed him a tissue box.

"Thank you. Now, as you were saying, Ms. Smallwood?"

Lady Smallwood, the lady who had asked for his full name, frowned. "How would you describe your influence over the Prime Minister?"

"I wouldn't say I've had any influence at all," Magnussen said sweatily.

Another official spoke up. "You've had seven meetings at Downing Street this year. Do you think it's appropriate for a newspaper proprietor, a private individual, and a foreign national to have such regular access to our Prime Minister?"

"I don't think it's wrong for a private individual to accept an invitation to such meetings." Magnussen plucked a tissue from the box. "Two ply." He tossed it away. "However, I do sincerely apologize for being foreign."

"That—That's not what I meant at all!"

Lady Smallwood said, "Mr. Magnussen, can you recall an occasion when your remarks could have influenced government policy or the Prime Minister's thinking in any way?"

Magnussen took his glasses off and wiped them with his handkerchief. "No."

"Are you sure?"

He put his glasses back on, then found they had been smeared with sweat and wiped them again. This process was repeated several times, until finally someone took pity and pushed the tissue box closer. "Mr Magnussen, if you could—"

"I need four ply, minimum!" He smacked the box away, then regained his composure. "I am sure. I have an excellent memory, Lady Smallwood."

-Later-

Lady Smallwood was sitting in her office looking at paperwork. She glanced up as Magnussen walked toward her.

"May I join you?"

"Hell no."

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her anyway. "In 1982 your husband corresponded with Helen Catherine Driscoll. The letters were rather...explicit, and are currently in my possession. She was fifteen at the time."

Lady Smallwood frowned. "She looked older."

"She looked delicious." Magnussen grabbed her hand at the wrist. "We have photographs, too."

She grabbed a taser from under her desk and tried to shock Magnussen. The electricity, however, simply dissipated on his skin. "What the hell?"

"The sweat on my body acts as an insulator against electricity."

Lady Smallwood made a face. "That's disgusting."

"But it's so cool! I'm like Pikachu!"

In another universe, Pikachu felt a strange shiver go through his body.

Magnussen let go of her hand and sat back smugly. "I know you won't attack me. There are consequences now, aren't there? I have the letters, therefore I have you."

She scowled. "This is blackmail."

"No, this is ownership."

"You don't own me."

A minute of silence passed. "I'm peeing right now," Magnussen said.

-A Cab-

Lady Smallwood sighed, disgusted. She'd spent the last fifteen minutes wiping off her hand, but nothing could get rid of the sweaty sensation. "Magnussen...No one stands up to him. No one dares. No one even _tries._"

She took out her bottle of Clare de la Lune perfume and sprayed it all over herself.

"There's not a man or woman in London capable of stopping that disgusting creature." She paused. "Wait a minute. Turn the car around. We're going to Baker Street."

"Sure thing, ma'am." The driver took a sharp turn and rammed into oncoming traffic.

-The Watson Abode, 6 AM-

Mary was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. Next to her, John was sleeping...and dreaming.

"Oh god, Sherlock! Oh, yeah! I'm gonna...oh! Sherlock!"

Mary sighed and got out of bed. Someone was knocking on the front door, so she went to go answer it.

Kate, one of their family friends, was standing at the door and sobbing.

"Kate! Are you all right? Come in." Mary motioned for her to enter.

-A Few Minutes Later-

Kate was sitting in the living room, and John and Mary were sitting across from her.

"It's Isaac," Kate said tearfully. "He's gone missing again."

John stood up and started pacing. "He's the drugs one, right?"

Mary gave him a look.

"He's in one of those...houses where people do drugs," Kate said.

"Give me the address. I'll go find him."

-A Few More Minutes Later-

John was dressed and running to his car, trying to get going before—

"What are you doing?" Mary asked, following him out of the house.

"God damn it. I mean, I'm going to find Isaac. Kate isn't going to the police, so someone has to get him."

Mary began walking toward the passenger side door.

"No, you can't come. You're pregnant."

"You can't go. I'm pregnant," Mary replied.

John gazed thoughtfully into the distance. "Where did you come from, Cotton-Eyed Joe?"

-The Crack House-

John knocked on the door. A guy named Bill opened it just enough to peer outside.

"What do you w—"

John kicked the door the rest of the way open, sending Bill flying down the hallway.

"Ow! You broke my arm!" Bill cried.

"No, I just sprained it," John said. "I'm a doctor; I know how to sprain people."

"The fuck kind of doctor—"

"Where's Isaac Whitney?"

"I don't know! Upstairs, maybe."

John went upstairs and into a room with a bunch of high people lying on the floor. "Isaac?" He found him sitting against the wall.

"Doctor Watson?" Isaac mumbled. "Have you come for me?"

"Yeah, it's not like I know a lot of people here," John replied.

At the sound of his voice, Sherlock rolled over from where he was lying near Isaac and pushed back his hood. "Have you come for me too, John?"

"Shut up, crackhead. Okay, Isaac, can you sit u—" John slowly turned back around. "_You_."

-Outside-

Mary waved at Isaac, who was coming towards the car.

"Mrs Watson, can I get in?" he asked, moving unsteadily on his feet.

"Yes, of course, get in. Where's John?"

"They're havin' a fight." Isaac walked past the car completely.

"Uh, no, Isaac, this way."

He blearily tried to climb in through the car door window, smacked his head on the glass, and fell over.

Before Mary could help him, a loud crash sounded as Sherlock flew through the nearest window and did a superhero landing on the ground. Deadpool cheered.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, JOHN, I'M ON A CASE!"

John leaned out the window and shouted, "ONE MONTH, SHERLOCK, THAT'S ALL IT TOOK!"

"I'M WORKING!"

"I'LL SHOVE THIS DUMPSTER UP YOUR ASS!"

"THAT WOULD TURN ME ON!"

Mary began banging her head on the steering wheel.

**Ugh this chapter was rough to get through. And I'm working now (RIP) so I'll have less time to write. But on a positive note, I think I'm gonna have a lot of fun with ****Magnussen's character. Thanks for reading, and as always, leave a comment letting me know what you thought. I'd really appreciate it!**


End file.
